


With This Shield or On It

by laudatenium



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, M/M, Slow Burn, who the hell knows what tags to add i certainly don't
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-03-21 18:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3701857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laudatenium/pseuds/laudatenium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, there are men, there are gods, and there are those of us who are both, yet neither,” Steve nodded at him.</p><p>“Maybe you’re a hero,” Tony grumbled, “but not all of us are heroes.”</p><p>Steve traded a look with the others, then smiled cryptically at Tony.  “Wait and see.”</p><p>---</p><p>After the Trojan War, the next generation of great heroes arises, and the Prince of Athens falls in love with the King of Korkyra.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from a traditional Spartan woman saying.
> 
> Note on the Historical Era: this is set in the late Heroic Age / Early Iron Age, before the Dorian Invasion or Greek Dark Ages, approximately one hundred years after the end of the Trojan War (maybe two/three generations removed). However, certain elements of society, dress, architectural elements (not buildings), craftsmanship, ect. come from post-Dorian Invasion and the Classical era, mainly because there is so little information on the era this will take place in (plus, they’re interesting and look cool). This was the time when the gods of the Greek Pantheon were taking a less active role on Earth, yet their influence was still strong. Athens was still ruled by a king/tyrant, and Sparta had not yet adopted the militarized society we are accustomed to learning about.
> 
> Basically this is set during a time between the two eras of Ancient Greek history we are familiar with, which has comparatively less information about it out there. I’ve taken a lot of liberties on the historical canon, but this is fanficton. I’m sure you can understand ;)
> 
> All my love to Sineala, who encouraged me to actually pursue this storyline!

The thing about armor was that, once a battle was over, all it was useful for was working up a good sweat.

 

He’d been sweating so long without a wash that the salt had run into the creases of this arms, legs, neck, and any gully formed by the armor, drying and crusting.  If he were poor, he would probably scrape it off and eat it.  Salt wasn’t cheap right now, as any shipments coming from the East or the South were stalled, as the exporters demanded twice _denarii_ for a case of it than they had during the war.  Which was saying something, as salt prices during the war had been four times what they had ever been before.  The only shipments they were getting were from the North, and it would be some time before production had been increased to the amount that would be able to sufficiently supply the majority of the Achæans.  So, most of the existing stock was either especially expensive or was gotten by gathering sea water in flasks and allowing the water to evaporate, leaving a small amount of salt. 

 

There would be wars fought over salt in the future, Tony was sure.  But hopefully, he would be dead and some other king could deal with it.

 

So instead of saving it, Tony dug his nail through the salt deposit that had formed in the fold between his chin and neck, then scraped it off on the bracer on his wrist.

 

When he’d first premiered this armor, Rhodey nearly had a fit over the fact that Tony had opted for bracers instead of a shield (“How in the Hades do you expect to be a proper _hoplite_ with no shield?  Tony, you’re gonna give me heart troubles.”), until Tony had waved the aquamarine amulet he had been given by the Head Priest of Hephæstus in the myriad of celebrations after the Hydric War, with its inscription to imbue the wearer with the creativity to improve.  Now that Rhodey knew what they could do, he wanted his own pair.

 

Tony was fairly certain bracers would not become part of the usual _hoplite_ kit, but hopefully they would protect him from getting his hand lopped off.

 

His bones felt heavy, like all that was keeping him standing was his armor and the sweat.  He’d lost his sense of smell somewhere around Argos, so the stench that came from his skin was not as overpowering as it might have been.  But the odor of the decaying head in the leather pouch on his belt would probably keep anyone who might be able to tell him how bad he smelled away.

 

It was five days worth of walking from Sparta, and he was on day three.  In the baking summer heat, Vanko’s head had begun to stink only a short while after Tony had decapitated him.

 

It was high summer.  He had left to duel Vanko the day after Panathanaea (it had been a lesser one this year), so it was just about as scorching as possible for a summer to be.  The rough road was cracked, with no mud patches to speak of.  With every footstep, he kicked up clouds of dust that stuck in the crevices of his greaves and his sweaty legs.  The sea to his right taunted him, the ebb and flow singing a song of icy water, when all he would find were sharp boulders.

 

He groaned internally.  If only he had taken up the offer of a horse, he would have been back in Athens by now.

 

But he had insisted on walking.  It was easy to refuse help in a throne room, surrounded by perfumed ladies and wine.  Not so easy, when you had foregone filling your water skin because of your hangover.   _But if the heroes of the past generations could do it_ , Tony thought as he squared his shoulders, _why the hell can’t I?_

 

Probably because the stories liked to skip over the boring parts.  You never get the full disclosure when signing up to be a hero.

 

But right now, Tony didn’t want to be a hero.  He didn’t want to be a prince.  He didn’t want to be the “Savior of the Athenians.”

 

He just wanted some fucking water.

 

And lo and behold, there was a stream in his path up ahead.

 

It wasn’t very big, with large rocks strewn in the sandy shore, but the rusty, sluggish water was _there_ , so he wouldn’t question it.  It was a few dozen cubits across, but knee-deep at the most.  Easy enough to cross, if he removed his greaves and sandals.

 

But water was the first thing on the agenda, so he peeled the slit-eyed helm from his head, sopping hair sticking to his fingers.  He let the helmet drop to the ground and knelt on the bank.

 

The moment his fingertips breeched the current, the surface exploded.

 

Tony was blown back, limbs flailing and finding a sharp rock with the underside of his knee.  He came up coughing and spluttering, but markedly cooler than he had been.  Stumbled to his feet, and turning to face the river god in his path.

 

Certainly the smallest river god that Tony had ever seen, but it still was twice his size and had muscles Tony was sure he didn’t have.  Its skin was dark blue with bloodshot eyes and dreadlocks.  It opened its mouth, and Tony saw pointy teeth in bloody gums.

 

“I am Pikas!” the river god roared.  “God of this river!  I wrestled with Herakles!  Lithe Artemis and her fifty maidens once bathed here!  Who are you, and what makes you think you may approach to drink from my waters?”

 

“I haven’t heard of you wrestling with Herakles,” Tony said mildly, not wanting the backlash that would come with informing him that he was not indeed a river but instead a dinky stream.

 

Pikas visibly bristled, sheets of water sloughing off his shoulders.  He coughed.  “Yeah.  Well.  I didn’t win.  So.  People don’t talk about it much.  Answer the question!”

 

“Technically, that was two questions, you just phrased it as one –“

 

“Augh!” Pikas shouted, picking up a medium-sized boulder and hurling it a dozen cubits away, where it landed with a splash.  The river (stream!) god grunted, obviously impressed with his party trick, and Tony resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  “Now!  Answer my question _sss_ , or you will end up like that rock!”

 

 _What, wet?_ Tony wanted to ask, but decide for the sake of his thirst he should play along.  He drew his sword, allowing Pikas to see the oiled iron with its silver and bronze studs, forged by Tony’s own hand.

 

“I am Antinous,” Tony sighed, the epithet worn on his tongue, “Prince of Athens.  Son of Hoples, King of Athens, and Mardus of Zancle.  Of the House of Stheino, which comes from the bloodline of Theseus and Hermes, the giant-slayer.  I am the hero who vanquished the Serpent of Ten Rings, and return from my quest to slay –“ he held up the bag containing Vanko’s head and shook it slightly “- the Spartan Vanko who sought to bring about the ruin of my House.”  _Plus, he threatened Pepper,_ but Tony didn’t say that.  “Now,” he croaked, and let his sword drop and impale into the dust, “are you gonna let me have some water?  ‘Cause I haven’t had a drink since Corinth, and I could really use –“

 

“Of course,” Pikas eagerly ushered towards the water, a reverent look on his face.  Tony stored that bit of information away, collapsing to his knees and scooping handfuls of water into his parched mouth.  After a few moments, he took his helm and dipped it in the water, bringing it up to pour over his head.  He filled it again, this time taking a long drink, savoring the coolness and the slight taste of metal the helmet added.

 

The water was murky, but it was slow enough to show Tony’s reflection.  He looked haggard, his damp hair curling at the ends, his beard in dire need of a trim.  His eyes were sunken, and if others were to be believed, empty.  But the ember glow still burned, that glint his mother told him was his alone, a gift from the gods.

 

She had always told him that the gods would bless him, that he would rise to be amongst the ranks of Herakles and Akhilles and Odysseus.  That the gods, so absent now, with little love for mortals in these hard days, smiled on him, and held him precious. 

 

He sighed and plunged his water skin into the water.

 

Pikas was still there, grinning widely as he stared down.  Tony mustered a smile that probably looked like a grimace.  “So, how’s the whole, uh, river thing going?”

 

“Oh, you know, pretty unexciting.   Get fish unstuck from the reeds, kill people who dare cross me or drink from me without permission.  Nothing nearly as interesting as what a hero-prince does.”

 

Was Pikas _fluttering his eyelashes?_

 

The water in his mouth now tasted like sand, but before he could respond, Pikas again swole to his full height and width.

 

The soft clip-clop of hooves was cut off by the holler of “Who _dares_ approach Pikas?”

 

The horse’s trot faltered, and Tony turned enough to see the startled man on the horse’s back pull his _petasos_ in alarm.  “Prince Antinous?”

 

“That’s me.”  The man looked relived, probably because he assumed Tony would protect him from the river god.  “Hey, can I borrow your horse?  I need to get back to my city.”

 

“Of _course_ you can have it, consider it a gift, in gratitude for all you do,” the man blathered as he dismounted.

 

 _Which isn’t much,_ but Tony kept that to himself as he hooked a leg and hoisted himself up.

 

Pikas bowed out of the way as Tony brought the horse through the water, while the man stood on the opposite bank, clutching his hat.

 

“It has been a pleasure meeting you,” Pikas declared in awe.

 

“Lovely.  We’ll have to do this again, sometime,” he called over his shoulder before urging the horse to a canter.

 

 

 

Around sunset, he was lucky enough to come across Pietro, the fastest of the Athenian messengers, and sent him to the palace to announce his imminent arrival.  He slowed the horse to a walk, and lounged back to cultivate an air of nobility.

 

Once he began passing all the travelers coming out of the west gate, he began to hear shouts and cheers, people running back into the city screaming “ _Nike!_ ”

 

It had been so long since the people had experienced war that they confused Tony’s little quests with major victories.

 

But he wasn’t going to stop them, he vowed to himself as he waved at a group of old women pouring libations at a tomb, who promptly dropped their wine and put their heads together to discuss the most recent development in the world of news.

 

Pietro was a fast one, and by the time he reached the west gate, about half of the inhabitants of the city were milling about, weaving summer flowers and grasses into garlands, draping them over the horse, covering up the scent of decaying flesh with heliotrope, lavender, larkspur, myrtle, poppy, and everlasting.

 

The informal procession made its way slowly past the _acropolis_ and the _agora_ , towards the palace.  At the front gates of the palace, the watchman was calling out as the slaves threw open the gates, taking the reins and guiding the horse into the courtyard.

 

“Well, about time you got your ass back!” Rhodey shouted, hurling himself down the porch and into Tony, looping an arm around Tony’s shoulders as he dismounted.

 

“Oh, come on Rhodes, gimme a little slack, will you?  I walked from Athens to Sparta, and half of the way back.  In armor.”

 

“If you’d taken a horse, you wouldn’t have needed to walk.  You win?”  Tony pointed at the bag.  “Good.  Pepper’s pissed that you decided you needed to defend her honor, but she’s secretly appreciative.  Go tell the king the prince has arrived,” Rhodey ordered, and one of the slaves dropped his basket in eagerness to comply.  Rhodey dropped his voice.  “You okay, Tones?”

 

“Fine, Rhodey.  Just been . . . thinking.”  Rhodey looked unimpressed.

 

Out of all of Tony’s bastard half-siblings (of which there were maybe twenty they were certain of, plus untold others), Rhodey was one of his favorites, along with Pepper.  Both had been born before his parent’s marriage, and they didn’t disrespect Maria.  With Rhodey, his courtesan mother had left Athens shortly after his parents’ wedding, leaving Rhodey a toddler in the palace with nothing but the nickname of her place of origin.

 

Tony and Rhodey had practically been raised together, Tony’s nurse putting Rhodey in charge of watching him while they were playing and allowing him to sleep in Tony’s cot.  As they grew, it became obvious that Rhodey had inherited some of the family’s godly blood, manifesting itself in a well-disciplined military mind and the ability to be fully responsible in any assignment he was given.  There was a contingency plan that if something happened to Tony, Rhodey would become Howard’s heir.  Many people felt Rhodey would make a much better king, Tony included.

 

But they were best friends, confidants, and brothers.  Tony didn’t care that Rhodey’s mother was different from his own; they were brothers where it mattered.

 

“So,” Rhodey thankfully cleared his throat and patted the horse’s flank as one of the little slave girls brought it an apple to munch.  “Where’d you get her?”

 

“Caught the ride on the road past Corinth.  Had a little trouble with the river Pikas.”

 

Rhodey glowered.  “Pikas never wakes up long enough to challenge travelers.  Shit, are we going to have to start warning travelers going in that direction to go around the river source?”  Tony just shrugged, and Rhodey, half grumbling and half grinning, pulled Tony inside.

 

The slaves and hangers-on were scrambling about, carting around bolts of linen, platters of olives and roast meat, baskets of bread, and casks of wine.  When anyone saw him, they stopped and gave an appreciative nod, and waited for him to pass before returning to their business, presumably preparing his victory feast.

 

Ever since the end of the Hydric War, there had only been peace in all of Achæa.  Sure, a few monsters had shown their ugly faces, but aside from the Attic Boar and the Argive Bull, nothing had posed a threat to any major population.  There was peace and plenty.

 

And the people were bored.

 

No Hellene was ever content to sit at home in peace and plenty.  Tony had a theory, that there needed to be threats to one’s life if one wanted to feel alive.  In the ten years since the war ended, there had been no major conflicts, droughts, curses, anything that could compare to the tragedies and joys that had been brought to the city by messengers on quick feet, or the dusty battlefields that formed their history.

 

So his decision to take up a sword and become a hero like the days of old had been met with enthusiastic praise in Athens, and elsewhere.  Women discussed him around the public fountains as they fetched water, men raised cups of wine to him as they relaxed at dinner.  Everywhere he went, people recognized him and asked him for accounts of his deeds.

 

Tony didn't understand it.

 

He had become a sensation.  And he had no idea what to do.

 

Becoming a hero hadn’t been very high on his list of priorities, but when the Serpent of the Ten Rings had begun eating livestock in the Attic countryside, and reports arose that it spit acid, it had been decided that a single man should respond to the threat.  And Tony had been yammering about his new acid-proof armor.

 

Long story short, Tony had become a hero, the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the Trojan War en masse.  The only other heroes to come out of the generations that had passed since had been two leaders who had together pretty much single-handedly (or dual handedly?) won the Hydric War: Karnis of Thebes, the marvelous lady captain of their army and the daughter of Kalliope, and Stephanos of Athens, the King of Korkyra.

 

Tony had met Karnis, or Carol as she preferred, several times at large feasts and such, but despite Howard’s proclamations that Steve was one of his greatest friends, he had not returned to Athens in the ten years since he had been given his kingship.  Every other king throughout Achæa had been their guest, but still the only memory Tony had of the man everyone lauded as the greatest hero of the age was glimpses of the smooth-faced man amidst the parties and celebrations, all golden and looking like a god.

 

Steve was most certainly a demigod, son of a much more important god than a muse, but all they had was speculation.  He had never confirmed anything before making a hasty departure to his new kingdom.

 

But Steve was still an Athenian by birth, and the hero of the most recent war, so his image littered the palace and the city.  Howard’s favorite drinking cup depicted Steve, and a fresco of him stood in pride of place in the throne room.

 

They were the heroes.  Tony was barely an adventurer.

 

But maybe it was because he was still new to the hero thing.  Maybe after a few more years he would find the purpose and point of it.

 

The room was filled by the time Tony and Rhodey entered, Tony still filthy and sweaty and clutching the bag holding Vanko’s head.  The men cheered, pulling him in and hammering on the armor, all of them asking questions at the same time, making it nothing more than a hum like bees.

 

He was surprised to see his mother and her women assembled in the room, silent and veiled as they sat on the hearth.  He could not approach then for fear of soiling them, but beneath her lavender veil, he could tell his mother was smiling.

 

His father, on the other hand, looked suitably unimpressed, lounging on his throne on the right side of the room, plucking uninterestedly at the hem of his scarlet _himation_.  His golden wreath looked cold in the torchlight.

 

Yanking Tony away from his fervent admirers, Rhodey guided him over towards the throne, and once the people had quieted down, Tony stood straight, squared his shoulders, and drew his sword from his belt.  He held it aloft, and a terrified glint of a fraction of a second glimmered in Howard’s eyes, before he assumed his usual disapproval/apathy.

 

Even beloved fathers had the fear of being ousted by sons.  That paradox in their society, with the strive to have strong son to inherit bringing that fear of the son becoming greater than the father, was a plague they would probably never eradicate.

 

Especially when the son was intent on being greater than the father.

 

Howard probably was worried of Tony poisoning him, or outright killing him, but Tony would never kill his father.  But not planning the death of a person didn’t mean the death wouldn’t be welcome when it came.

 

“Father, Athenians, I have been to Sparta, where I challenged the vicious Vanko, who called upon the gods to decimate our great city, and won.  I bring you his head -” Tony pulled the leather pouch from his belt, opening and gripping the shaggy hair and pulling it out with a flourish to a chorus of ‘ooh’s.  The stump of the neck was still damp and crusty from the heat, and there were plump maggots squirming in the eye sockets.  “- as proof of my victory.”

 

There was a moment of silence, before Rhodey started clapping and room dissolved into raucous applause.

 

Howard held up his hands for quiet, and the men respectfully allowed their cheering to die down.  “You have done very well, my son,” Howard proclaimed, venom dripping from his honeyed words, “and we should honor you for your dealing with this, ah, terrible threat.  We shall feast in your honor tonight.”

 

Howard raised his hands, and slaves bearing wine-cups and platters of food threaded through the crowd.  Howard lifted his Steve _kylix_ as Tony accepted his own.

 

“May the gods look with favor on Prince Antinous, and may he find success in all his endeavors,” Howard spat, malice tangible in his every word.

 

Cheers echoed around the chamber as Tony gazed at his reflection in the blood-colored wine, and for a moment, thought something in his eyes had caught fire, light burning at the edges of his irises.


	2. Chapter 2

When he awoke, he allowed for a moment of self-hatred.

 

There were approximately eight bodies around his bed, several draped over his own.  Overheated skin on overheated skin, and there were heavy drapings over the windows, so the air was hot and stagnant, still filled with the heady scents of sweat and wine and bodily fluids.  Olive oil was everywhere, slicking skin and dripping onto the floor and staining the blanket and sheet.

 

_Well, I don’t think that’s how Athena intended it to be used_ he mused as he pulled himself out from beneath a torso and a couple of limbs.

 

This was his life.  Go on an inane quest, return to the palace, deal with his father’s hatred, have an orgy, wake up in a pile of bodies, but still alone.

 

One of the girls was awake, feigning sleep.  He prodded her hip.  She looked up, wide-eyed and terrified, like she expected him to do something to her.

 

“Someone will see to it that you get your pay,” he murmured.

 

She nodded once, relief palpable as she slid out from the people pile, only stopping to pluck a gauzy dress indiscriminately from the clothing strewn about the room, before sliding out the door silently as a shade or spirit.

 

It always surprised him, how terrified prostitutes and dancers were when they woke up in his chambers, like they expected him to once again throw himself upon them.  Truthfully, he couldn’t bring himself to sleep with them sober.

 

After she had scurried away, he stepped over one of the cithara boys towards an _amphora_ placed on a marble-topped table against the wall, _kantharos_ ready at its side.  He poured a measure of wine – Samean, if he wasn’t mistaken – and took a long drought.  The mild burn distracted from the feeling someone was going at the base of his skull with a blunt chisel.

 

He didn’t discuss it with anyone.  Even in a city filled with people who loved him, and a palace filled with people sworn to serve him, there were very few people with whom he felt comfortable to talk to, and even then baring his soul was not something that was very enticing.  His mother and Peggy, Pepper and Rhodey, they looked him with love and frustration, worry pinching their brows.

 

He felt horrible, letting them down, but he wasn’t sure _how_ he was letting them down.  All he wanted to do was fix it.

 

They were the only people who mattered, really.  Sex and flattery were easily found, but love and trust were sparing.

 

And proper _eros_ would likely never happen to him, so they were that much more important.  His family, his _real_ family loved him, but they were obligated to an extent.  He had mastered talking and charming, and the people _adored_ him, but people who knew him didn’t like him.

 

There had been several _offers_ made by older _gentlemen_ , made of course to Howard, not Tony.  They were certain that a relationship with an older man, or even a _hetaera,_ would benefit Tony by “enlightening him to adult pleasures” and “helping him transition into adult society”.  It had only been after a desperate plea made to Peggy for her to dissuade them that he had been excused from anything of the sort.  Still, men had tried, giving him gifts and trying to trick him into kissing them over a cup of wine.

 

Rarely did he vomit after drinking, but several of those times had turned his stomach.

 

They had largely stopped their pursuit once he began to grow in his beard (helped no doubt by the ointment that Pepper had procured for him from one of the kitchen girls, who had a hidden alter devoted to Hekate that she smeared with pig’s blood and inscribed lead tablets with curses for two _osbols_ , who had promised he would grow thick bristles quick), but they still leered at him, hooded eyes over wine.

 

He was vain enough to know he was attractive.  But they didn’t care for that.  No, the thing that seduced them was the potential of being the lover of the future king.

 

Best to stick to lowly slave prostitutes.  Although they might be lacking in societal graces, at least there wasn’t much they could use against him.

 

“I see you had fun,” a disapproving voice came from the doorway, not even bothering to knock.

 

“Leave me alone, Pepper,” he mumbled into his cup, not meaning it in the slightest.

 

She smiled pityingly, then jingled the kidskin she held in her hand.  The dancers, flute girls and cithara boys, awoke quickly and lined up to receive their _drachma_.  Pepper tucked the scroll she was carrying under her arm and began doling out their pay for the night’s work.  Tony poured more wine into his cup.

 

After the last dancer had slipped from the room, it was silent for a moment.

 

“Thank you,” Pepper said very quietly after a while.

 

“What for?”

 

“Don’t bullshit me, Tony.  You fought Vanko mainly because he threatened me.  You didn’t need to, but . . . still, thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.”  And it was probably the most sincere thing Tony had said since he got back to Athens.

 

Pepper strode over, put her hands on either side of his face and stared directly into his eyes.  “Are you okay?”

 

“Who says I’m not perfectly fine?”

 

“Rhodey says you’re off.  You’ve been off for a while, but it seems to be getting worse.”

 

“How so?”

 

She smiled sadly, and as much as he knew he hurt her, he would be forever grateful to have her for a sister.

 

Pepper had the distinction of being Howard’s oldest child.  He had fathered her on a hapless slave girl, who had died in childbirth.  Pepper had fortunately lived, suckled by one of the many old nurses and brought up to follow in the aging Jarvis’ footsteps.  Occasionally Tony wondered why Pepper had not been exposed outside the city walls, but was thankful to whatever god ordained it that she hadn’t.

 

Pepper once had another name, one connected with holiness and virginity or some shit, but once when she was very small, she caught one of the cooks storing away the long peppers to sell for a gain in the _agora_ , and informed Jarvis of his activities.  The cook had been sacked and she forever became Pepper.  Though she often remarked that she wished she had been renamed after a plant that helped with headaches instead of coughs and digestive issues.

 

He shrugged out of her grip.  He hated disappointing her.  Even when he didn’t know what he’d _done_.  “Do I have something on my face?”

 

She sighed.  She did that a lot.

 

“Oh, Tony.  If only you could properly see yourself.”

 

“See what?  A drunkard playing at pathetic hero.”  He turned away, back to the familiar swirling depths of the wine.

 

She whispered, barely enough for him to hear.  “May whatever god looks over you give you clear sight.”  She cleared her throat and held out a scroll.  “I need you to seal this.”

 

He fumbled for a lamp and some sealing wax before she steadily lit the flame.  After a few moments he was able to press the carnelian stone delicately carved with a helm that was his signet ring into the soft wax.

 

“Thank you,” Pepper chirped, all business, and how thankful he was that she quickly let things go.  “Your mother wants to see you.  And you should probably be dressed for her.”

 

Tony looked down at himself.  “I’ve been naked the whole time?”

 

Pepper snorted.  “Just as long as you don’t go out on your next quest without your tunic.”  And Tony had to laugh.

 

 

 

As always Tony had to physically restrain himself from smashing the _lebes gamikos_ that rested on its ornamental pillar next to the door to his mother’s quarters.  The jar had been a gift from the women of the palace upon his parents’ wedding, and had been used to hold the water that ritually cleaned his mother for her new home.  There was a beautiful illustration of the wedding of Zeus and Hera on the front, depicting the moment Gaia gifted Hera with the Tree of the Golden Apples of Immortality.  Tony had always found it an ironic choice.  Celebrating immortality with her death-sentence. 

 

There were several serving maids bustling about, carting baskets of dyed wool and boxes of spun wool to and fro.  Their faces changed frequently enough that Tony didn’t bother leaning their names.

 

Maria was in her solar, possibly the best room in the palace.  The second floor windows looked over the center courtyard, but the curtains gave it an air of anonymity.  Tony could remember when he was very small, wrapping himself in the fine linen and pretending she wouldn’t be able to find him. 

 

Her loom was centered in the middle of the solar as it always had been, stark lines fractured by the sun.  She sat at the center of a mat, resplendent in her signature heliotrope linen, fingers whipping the curls of wool into whatever it was today.  Vermillion dyed wool edged in saffron, almost finished.

 

One of the newer slaves, Thratta for lack of any other name, stood tall and pregnant over his mother’s small form, scolding with a look of distain on her face.

 

“Like your son needs _more_ clothing, and you want to embroider it with gold no less.  Ridiculous.  You should be making new sheets for your husband’s bed –“

 

“So he may lie with you on it?” Maria asked calmly, deadly iron in her soft voice.  “Wait, once he knocks you whores up he drops you like hot oil.”

 

“The king hasn’t shared your bed in _years_ , woman –“

 

“But I am still his lawful wife.  My son will inherit the throne of Athens; _your_ child will be lucky to stay in the palace to tame _my_ son’s horses or weave _his_ sheets.”

 

“Usually,” Tony nearly shouted, “I would have you beat for your impudence.”

 

Thratta looked up and blanched.  “Young Master –“

 

“Pepper,” Tony ordered, nearly vibrating with rage, “see that Jarvis has her on the market at once.  I won’t demand a brothel, but at least a textile factory.”

 

Pepper nodded, a flash of anger hidden by her usual mask of passive indifference.  “At once.  Come, Thratta.”

 

“The king will miss me,” she hissed as Pepper firmly griped the woman’s arm.

 

“The king doesn’t give a fuck about anyone,” Tony said with a wave of his hand.

 

Thratta went, raging along the corridor.  Maria looked worn, and Tony wanted to throw all the slaves his father bedded and then began to mistreat her into the ocean.

 

“Sorry,” he whispered, walking over and kneeling next to her loom.

 

Her soft hand swept out of her sleeve and cupped his cheek.  “No.  Thank you, my sweet.  He drunkenly sleeps with her once, she begets a child, and thinks herself better than me?”  She glared out the window.

 

The situation of his father’s bastards was the bane of his mother’s existence.  A few of them, mainly Rhodey and Pepper, had been born before she arrived in Athens, their mothers were dead or gone, and they respected her.   Maria had no issue with them.  Nor the women Howard raped in fits of drunkenness, whom Maria often found crying in the storerooms after feasts.  They respected her position, legal wife and mother to the legitimate heir. 

 

But some of them, servants and slaves, thought being the newest conquest of the king was a position that gave them power over the queen.  They bullied her and encouraged the bastards to do so as well, saying Howard cared about _them_ , that _they_ were different.

 

But Howard didn’t care about anyone.  Not his legal family, not his concubines.  Only the comrades from the Hydric War were held in anything akin to love or esteem. 

 

Say what you want about his father.  Inscribe his name on lead tablets and throw them into graves for all Tony cared.  Just so long as you never say a word against Queen Mardus.

 

“But enough of that, darling.”  She patted his cheek, a little too hard.  “Do not worry yourself over it.  My son must tell me of his great victory.”

 

Tony ended up sprawled on the floor, head in her lap as Maria stroked his hair with one hand and ran her bone needle threaded with gold along the edge of the garment, which was for him.  She made all the proper gasps of surprise in all the right places, flinching when Tony described the rotting head.

 

“Had I know she was mistreating you, I would have stayed.”

 

“Your father’s whoring ceased bothering me years ago.”  She cursed quietly, and turned back to unpick the most recent row of stitches.  “Honestly, the only time I even remotely found him kind or considerate was the night we made you.”

 

Tony sat up.  “There was a time when he was _remotely_ nice?”

 

She frowned at her needle.  “He didn’t even seem the same man.  But he wasn’t drunk, for once.  That might have had something to do with it.  He was even worse afterwards, but I stopped caring after –“  She froze, eyes wide.  “Did I ever tell you what happened while I was expecting you?”

 

“He stopped paying attention to you altogether?”

 

She snorted, for a brief moment showing that spark that came from Zancle, that hint that she was more than a dutiful queen, wife, and mother, that she remained an individual beneath all her airs.  He loved that part of his mother, that Sicilian fire that they tried to smother in the cloistered rooms in Athens, yet the ember still burned.

 

“Well, yes, but that was to be expected.”  She whispered something he couldn’t hear and looked out the window.  A soft, cool breeze, smelling of pomegranates wafted through the window, which was odd, since the fruit did not come into season for another few months.  She stood.  “Come with me.”

 

She led him over to the corner, where in a tiny alcove set into the wall was her shrine to Hera.  A small terracotta statue, painted ivory and gold, with a small oil lamp lit next to a bundle of dried lavender.  She lit the lamp and shucked a few petals into the flame, the calming scent he always associated with her wafting into his nose and doing more to stop his headache than any other remedy.

 

Maria made to sit on the rush mat, but Tony snatched up a flattish cushion and pushed it towards her.  She smiled gratefully, then seated herself.  Tony plopped down next to her, the addition of the cushion making them the same height.  She took his hand.

 

“I never assumed your father would be faithful.  What king doesn’t have his assortments of courtesans and slaves, solely for his own pleasure?  It didn’t bother me, as long as he remembered I was his rightful wife.”  She gripped his hand tighter.  “But he ignores me, and has his concubines serve me, and lets his bastards run free through my rooms.  You have told me that you wonder why I honor Hera, when she has not blessed me?  My sweet, she cannot keep her husband any more than I may keep mine.  But she has blessed me, more than anything else.”

 

“Mother?”

 

She gripped the sides of his face, her deep earthen eyes old and fierce.  “She appeared to me.  She told me that she sympathized with my plight.  She told me she could not sway your father, but she could make _my_ child among the greatest.”

 

A bright, hot warm filled his chest, like liquid gold.  “Hera blessed me.”

 

His mother smiled, weary.  “She did.”

 

That was . . . new.  The gods had largely disappeared from Earth.  If a goddess looked on him with favor . . . .

 

Pepper hurried in while Tony was still reeling.  “Thratta will be put on the market in the morning.  But more importantly, Tony, your father wants to meet with you.”

 

Maria released him, eyes still fiery.  “Think on that, my love.  Think on what that means.  Now you must go.  Kiss me before you leave.”

 

Her cheek was wet when he put his lips to it.  “Mother?  Is something the matter?”

 

Maria looked at Pepper.  “He doesn’t know yet?”

 

Pepper swallowed.  “No.”

 

“ _What_ don’t I know?”

 

His mother cupped his cheek again.  “Remember, you have always been my blessing and my joy.”  She knelt and picked the finished garment from the loom-weights, standing again and wrapping it over his white linen tunic.  “Go.”

 

Pepper tugged him from the room as Maria turned to hide her tears.

 

 

 

As soon as Tony entered, Howard banished the slaves who were cleaning the spilled wine from the night before with vinegar.  One of them fumbled and spilled her jar, which gave Tony a moment to examine the wall as Howard screamed at the girl.

 

The fresco depicted the most famous scene from the Hydric War – Steve’s defeat of the Schmidtican Hydra.  People said it captured perfectly Steve’s resistance to give in, as well as his peculiar fighting style – distinctive shield held out like it was the weapon, not the sword or spear.

 

Tony was torn on the idea of the man.  On one hand, he was the ideal hero – clever and obviously powerful, but humble.  Peggy said she would have married him, if not for her necessary role as a _hetaera_ who seduced secrets from men of power visiting Athens.  Though Tony wondered if she thought she would have sullied his reputation.

 

But Howard idolized him.  And combined with the fact Tony had never properly met him, he was wary to believe the legends.

 

Steve worship was just another element of Howard’s preoccupation with the Hydric War.  Howard was obsessed with the war.  He remained in a constant state of apathy to everything around him, unless word came that an old ally was coming to visit.  Then was thrown into his nostalgic anger.  As with most men, Howard could not let go of the past.  His glory days were long over, but he clung to them with all he had, as he had abandoned everything else.  Tony was surprised that Howard hadn’t declared another war, just for the sake of replaying the past.

 

“I’ve made up my mind,” Howard declared as he poured some unwatered wine into his cup, covering a similar scene to that on the wall.  “I need an heir who knows how to handle himself.”

 

“So you’re disinheriting me.”  Fine.  Tony would take his mother and Pepper, and . . . set up as a blacksmith.  In Corinth.  Or Argos.  Or Pylos.  Somewhere.  Rhodey would be king, and Tony would be free to do what he wanted.

 

“No,” Howard looked at him, harsh, like a slave trader looked at a potential purchase.  Assessing what the slave could do, how much it would benefit _him_.  “You need to learn to be a man, a _real_ man.  I’m sending you off to mentor, for a year.”

 

“What?  We agreed we wouldn’t –“

 

Howard held up his hand for silence and took a drink.  “This – this hero shit.  You don’t know anyone who is a proper warrior king.  That’s what you seem to be intent on becoming.  He’s offered –“ Howard pulled a scroll from his belt “- and you’ll do well to learn from him.  Knock some humility into you.  If I keep letting you go on these quests, your ego’s only going to inflate even more, and that’s not what I need in an heir.  No, I’ve made my decision.  I’m sending you off to Korkyra.  Now get out of my sight.”

 

“ _Korkrya?_   That little rock on the edge of the ocean –“

 

“Steve offered to mentor you.  He’s the best man I’ve ever known.  If you could be a tenth of the man he is, I’d be happy.  There’s a ship that’s waiting.  Now, _get out_.”

 

Tony stumbled from the room.  What on Earth had _happened_ today?  His head was spinning with the speed of the developments as he haphazardly threw a few things into a trunk.  He had been blessed by Hera.  And now he was going immediately to join an old friend of his father’s, on an island farther than Tony had ever been from his home.

 

He didn’t have time to say goodbye to anyone he cared about.

 

He wandered into the courtyard, dragging his trunk as he headed towards the shed where he kept his tools and armor.

 

“Megamede,” the herald announced as the gates opened to admit a driver carrying a passenger.

 

“What happened?” Peggy demanded the moment she stepped down from the carriage.

 

“He’s sending me to Korkyra.  Now.”

 

“That bastard -  When?”

 

“I’m getting my crap.  A ship’s waiting.”

 

“He said he’d wait a couple days before - Just give me a moment to tell you something.”  Peggy grabbed his hand, bulling him into the shadowed porch, away from the prying ears of the slaves.  She shooed away a couple of old women who were stringing beans.  They looked put-out, but fled.

 

“Listen very closely.  We don’t have much time.  Since Steve saw you after the war – well, he has a hunch, one that not many people can verify.  Those who can include Steve and his people.  He believes – and I’m inclined to agree with him – that you’re different.  Like him.”

 

“He _left_ you,” Tony spat.  “Why do you trust him?”

 

“Don’t judge Steve too harshly,” Peggy scolded.  “You don’t know him; not many people _do_.  He’s – he’s made his own decisions, ones that weren’t easy to make.  He gained a kingship that he takes seriously.  Most kings don’t.”

 

“Sure, but a balance can be found, he should understand that you have to split your time evenly –“

 

“And you do?”  She arched her eyebrow, and he shifted nervously beneath her scrutinizing glare.

 

“That’s different.”

 

“Is it?”  She sighed, arranging her _peplos_ primly as she sat on a storage chest and ushered Tony to join her.  “I know you don’t like to hear it, but you _do_ need to start exercising some control over yourself _and taking up your responsibility_.  I know it might be a while before you become king, but what do you expect to do, learn on the job?  You’re in for a difficult few years if that’s the case.  Steve will help you.  I know he’ll do well.”

 

“How can you have so much faith in him?  If he loved you, he would have stayed here.”

 

“Don’t talk about him like that,” she snapped.  “What we had – what we had – I _know_ him Tony.  And love sometimes means that you understand that people are a certain way, and you can’t always change their minds.  I _manipulate_ information out of people, Tony; Steve’s not one to be moved.  I love him, always, but it’s different now.  And anyway, I have Angie now.  It would have been awful to leave him for her.”

 

“I always _knew_ there was more to you two than just friends.  How – “  But Peggy gave him a look that said any questions of that sort would leave him unconscious.   “But why couldn’t he have married you and just let you and Angie do your thing?”

 

“That’s _far_ more than you ever needed to know about that in the first place.  Let’s just say Steve is a man who expects monogamy.  I can’t give him that, not in my line of work, and I could never move to Korkyra.  How he lives there,” she shivered, “I don’t know.”

 

“You said people are a certain way, in-in love,” Tony diverted haltingly.  “How would I be?”

 

She reached out to hug him, wrapping him in her strong arms.  Peggy’s hugs were so different from his mother’s, but both special in their own way.  Maria was soft, yielding, and encouraging whereas Peggy was stalwart, firm, and anchoring.  He needed both.

 

“You’ll meet someone,” she whispered in his ear.  “Someone who will see underneath all your bluster and bluff, and love _you_.  I’m not sure when, but someday.  Someone who will make you see that all the things you do aren’t necessarily all the things you are.”  She squeezed his shoulders, tightly, like she knew he needed something to keep him together.  “Now go, before he comes out and starts yelling.”

 

“Even _you_ want me gone,” he griped, but did as he was told.

 

Peggy smiled tiredly.  “You’ll do well, Tony.  Now,”  she straightened as she stood, “I’m going to talk to your father about the _immediacy_ of this decision.”

 

He turned to go pack up what he could of his forge.

 

“Oh, and Tony?” Peggy called.  He turned and for a second she stood tall, the steely glint in her eye sharper than any dagger and more than capable of killing any man.  “You asked how you would be in love.  You’d believe in them.  You’d give them everything.  You’d give your whole heart, because you aren’t capable of anything less.”

 

The fierce gaze glimmered and fractured, and she smiled once more before turning and striding towards the throne room.


	3. Chapter 3

The man had stood out amidst the congregated people like Apollo, all golden hair and smooth face.  An almost golden halo of light had clung around him, setting him apart from the drab assorted dignitaries; they glittered with gems and gold but were still gritty.  He stood somehow pure but unfiltered.  It was an odd contrast, like the raw, uncultured man was better than the pasteurized polite society.

 

Around his brow was a diadem, with a Herakles knot done in sapphire and sliver with seed pearls criss-crossing on metal wires.  Freshly cut olive branches had been used to form a victory wreath.  He pulled at it when he thought no one was watching, obviously not used to the marks of affluence or victory.

 

Someone raised their cup and called for a toast to the new King of Korkyra.  People howled and rushed to pour the wine down their gullets.  The honoree flushed and looked down at his own, untouched, _kylix_.

 

From where Tony crouched unseen beneath a cloth-covered table, Stephanos of Athens was every bit the ideal hero.

 

Tony had been told by his mother to go to bed, had been told by his nurse to go to bed, had been told by his tutor to go to bed, had been told by Jarvis to get out of the banquet hall, and had been told by Pepper and Rhodey that he would be caught.  But still, there he was, least he miss his chance to observe Steve unopposed.

 

One of his first memories was of the women, children, and old men waving off their warriors, packed into triremes and headed northeast, through the Hellespont and into the Inhospitable Sea.  Ever since there had been messengers, reports, urns in need of burial, as the remaining people tried to eke out a living.  It had been in his tenth summer when the first white sails of warships had appeared approaching the Piraeus.

 

There had been so many ships that Tony had counted as he snuck around the ankles of the crowds with Rhodey, more than the Athenian Navy contained, until they encountered a group of rowdy Boeotian warriors passing through the crowd.  Messengers on the first ship whipped to the palace to inform Maria of the imminent arrival of the entire victorious Achæan army that would be staying in the city for an undisclosed amount of time, and to ready the best wine for a victory banquet.

 

He had stood in the throne room waiting in excitement for his father to _finally_ return home.  Howard, half-drunk already and resplendent in cloth of gold, hadn’t even glanced at him.

 

Weeks has passed, and the hope that his father would acknowledge him faded with the summer flowers.  Wine sodden celebration dragged on for ages, only stopping to troop up to the Acropolis to perform sacrifices to the gods.  Tony alternated between spying and hiding in his mother’s quarters.

 

As time passed, the course of the war was revealed in enthusiastic drunken conversation.  The barbarians had somehow tamed a breed of hydra and had sicced them on the _hoplites,_ rendering any modern tactics useless.  They had weltered for six years, campaigning indefinitely.  The only success they found was Carol rampaging on the field of battle by herself, like the heroes of old.

 

Somewhere in the masses of warriors they found Steve, who assumed his role quite beautifully.  The only thing about his past that had come out was that he was from Athens.  None of the aristocrats knew of him, but one day he just emerged from the crowd and went to work.  There were memories of a runty armor boy also named Steve, and they looked incredibly similar save the incredible physique that the boy would have needed to attain in several hours.  Whispers circled that Steve had been blessed by a god, or that he was the son of a god.

 

No one knew, save Peggy, the old King of Korkyra, and several others, what had made Steve, and they all refused to talk.

 

A particularly rough wave hit the boat, sending Tony tumbling into the starboard side, hitting the shroud with a harsh _thwack_ and sending his memories scattering to the wind.  Several of the sailors chortled.

 

Cursing, Tony pulled back, massaging the knot at the base of his skull.  He was more than ready to be done with this journey.  Howard had given the ship’s captain orders to sail quickly and unostentatiously, which meant minimal stops at ports along the route and that Tony was not allowed to go into the cities and towns to take advantage of the local king’s hospitality.

 

So over the course of the past few days Tony had made due with a pile of burlap under the stars.  It wasn’t so bad, really.  The skies had been remarkably clear, with calm seas and strong winds that sped them in the direction they were headed without much fuss.  That part was remarkable in of itself.  Tony had overheard the sailors saying that this was the most favorable weather they had ever seen, so the gods must be looking favorably on the Prince leaving Athens for a time.

 

It was the sailors, more than anything, which were the most tiring, with their incessant chatter and loud snores and awful hygiene.  They let their beards and hair grow slovenly and ragged, and did not oil their hair or skin.  And it wasn’t as though Tony could avoid them forever.  With the close quarters on the trireme, they were always right there.

 

Tony retreated back to his little burrow at the prow, where he had his trunks filled with armor and a lump of canvas that was serving as a bed.  He stretched, crick in the knobs of his spine.    Never again was he going without a mattress, even a crappy one.

 

“You might want to pretty yourself up.  We’re nearing Korkyra,” the man with the eye patch told him as he strode over.

 

When Tony had made it to the docks, he had found them man waiting by the mooring lines.  He’d introduced himself simply as Fury.  He was not involved with . . . anyone really.  Tony could remember the man speaking with Howard and Peggy at feasts, but he was not a regular feature of the court.  He didn’t seem to belong anywhere, roving from city to city and court to court.  So the information that the man worked, at least, in conjunction with Steve was more than he’d ever had before.

 

Tony was fairly certain that Fury was one of those people with inroads to the gods.  He had named himself after the Kindly Ones and hadn’t been killed yet, so he at least garnered some respect.  (And with some morbid curiosity, Tony was eager to see if Fury had bargained his eye for something else from a twisted god.)  But, Tony had to keep reminding himself, he also had the blessing of the gods, the _Queen_ of the Heavens and presumably the god of metalworking.

 

He touched the amulet of Hephæstus idly and jolted when it heated in a burst of white-hot that lasted for a second.

 

“Something the matter?” Fury asked, expression almost unreadable but there was a twist of knowing amusement in face.

 

“Nothing, nothing,” Tony mumbled, and turned about readying himself for disembarkment.

 

After oiling his body he decided on a simple white _peplos_ covered by the scarlet _himation_ his mother had given him before he left.  Once he was dressed he turned to watch for the island that would be his home for the next year.

 

The approaching shoreline emerged slowly from the horizon, dusty rock topped with scrubby hills beyond the hot sand.  The ship’s captain skirted the edge of the island, keeping to the deeper waters to avoid running aground on the sharp stones.

 

It slid by fast, and Tony had to grudgingly admit that the island didn’t look completely terrible.  There was an untamed nature to the place, raw power in the sea and sky, harsh winds sculpting the sand and rock into twisted, rippling shapes.  Beyond the strip of sand, harrowing cliffs topped with greenery or fields with vibrant wildflowers dotting the waves of grass lead up to hills covered in woody trees and scrub.  It was obvious that no large animals would live in the wilds here, so the daily worry of the Phaiakes had was of the gods cursing them with a savage beast.

 

But while the island looked vaguely wild and lonely, it wasn’t vacant.  Shepherds with sheep and goats waved as the ship slid past, as did the farmer inspecting a small field of barley.  A solitary doe appraised them for a moment before slipping into the hills.

 

“Oi!  Shoo!” one of the sailors cried, immediately whipping the others into a frenzy.  Tony turned to see the elegant swoop of golden-brown feathers with a red under-wing glide over and settled lightly on the railing next to him.  The falcon analyzed him with sharp golden eyes, before letting out a screech and taking flight again, looping once around the mast before setting off towards the north, leaving the ship in his slip-stream.

 

“Ay, what if it’s one ‘a them tame birds that rich peoples sometimes has?”  The group of sailors collectively turned to Tony for conformation.

 

“Falconry?  Maybe.”  Tony had been given a tiny bird to be trained to hunt when he was small, but Pepper had fallen in love with the bird and he’d let her have it.  She’d fed the thing too many dates and killed it, and was inconsolable for weeks.  She still flinched when anyone brought it up.

 

Fury snorted.  “It’s just Redwing, champs.  Checkin’ up on us, seein’ how far off we are.”

 

The sailors congregated, discussing amongst themselves which exotic animal they would buy with unlimited funds until the captain shouted for them to man the oars.

 

More and more tiny cottages appeared next to tiny fields, with tiny people emerging, pointing and waving cheerfully.  They looked excited, thrilled at the sight of the trireme, like they’d never seen an Athenian warship before.  Which the probably hadn’t.

 

Possibly the oddest sight was that of a man, perfectly built, running nude along the bottom of the ragged cliffs, powerful legs moving through knee-deep water.  As they outstripped him, the man waved.

 

Tony turned to Fury.  “I’ve never met anyone from Korkyra.  What’s the deal with these people?”

 

Fury lounged against the railing.  “How do you mean?  Him?”  He nodded at the running man.

 

“No.  Sort of.  In part.  I’ve never seen people quite so . . . .”

 

“Welcoming?”

 

“You could call in that.  They look . . . _excited_ to see us.  Peasants are never thrilled with my presence unless they know who I am.”

 

“Cultural attitudes to _xenia_.  As far off as Korkyra is, there is a higher likelihood of things being different from the mainland and the Peloponnese.  You Athenians think that you properly follow _xenia_ , and you do, but it’s a long way between properly respecting your guests and being friendly,” Fury told him.  “The Phaiakes are a particularly friendly group, mainly because as far away as they are, not many people make the effort to journey here.  Foreigners are novelties, but not in a bad way.  They’re curious about who you are and why you are escorted by the Athenian Navy.  News takes time to travel, and new gossip is scarce.  They’ll treat you kindly, but be forewarned they’re already talking about you.”

 

“This is the _least_ inspiring entrance I’ve ever been in,” Tony muttered. 

 

“Yeah?”  Fury raised the eyebrow over his remaining eye.  “And you’re a jaded Athenian prince who’s used to everyone coming to you.  Well, your court.  The only Athenians these people are familiar with are Steve, whom they adore, and traders, who they’re less enamored with.  They don’t know that the Prince of Athens is going to be living here for a year yet, but they can tell you’re important.  They want you to be like him.”

 

“As does my father.”

 

“Okay, I’ll buy that.  But, Tony,” if Fury had been a more approachable man he might have put a comforting hand on his shoulder, “you don’t know Steve.  He doesn’t get out there much, but he’s still very conscience of the fact that he was born to a supposedly virginal priestess of Asklepius who ended up having a son anyway.  He grew up lower than dirt in the city that you were born in the highest position.  Sure, all kings and tyrants love him, but he’s not stupid.  He keeps his distance; he keeps the mythical hold over them.  Were he to get involved in your petty politics, he’d quickly become just another king from a backwater island further away  than Ætolia, and the mythos of the grandest hero of the Hydric War would be lost.”

 

Tony picked at his mother’s embroidery on his _himation_.  “Then why’s he doing this?”

 

“You see, Steve is the kind of guy who feels the need to take the weight of the world on his shoulders.  I think, because he doesn’t give a lot away, that he is disgusted by the way Howard has treated you.  He and Peggy keep tight correspondence, and they tell each other everything.  Howard has tried convincing him to come back to Athens to mentor you for years, but it seems Steve’s plan was to get you away from Howard and let you develop on your own.”

 

Tony stared.

 

“Just think on that.”  And with a flourish, Fury strode over to talk with the captain.

 

Tony was still trying to process the enormity of what little he knew of what this island held for him as they sailed into the harbor, such as it was.  A few rickety planks roped and nailed together to form a series of piers. 

 

A couple of dockworkers reached out for the mooring lines, puling and twisting, and soon enough, Tony was standing next to Fury on the creaky boards.

 

“Well, about time you got here,” a lovely baritone called out.

 

It was the running man.  He should not have been able to reach the port in the time it had taken the ship to arrive, but the improbability of his speed was lost when Tony got a good look at him.

 

The man was _gorgeous_.  Tony had appreciated the view enough from behind, but up front . . . well, Tony felt he should thank someone.  Anyone.  Everyone.  Men he knew spent hours and days working on their physiques would cry and curse the gods if they saw how perfectly sculpted this man was.  He was like a heroic statue, with all the blemishes ignored.  He was neatly groomed, hair shorter that Tony was used to seeing and a full, even beard a darker shade of golden brown than the hair up top.  Minimal body hair, enough to denote adulthood but not so much as it was disgusting.  The only thing that did not conform with traditional beauty was the massive member hanging between this muscular thighs, but with a rush of heat, Tony wondered how much he should consider what others thought beautiful.

 

“Well, look at _you_ ,” Tony purred.  “Why don’t you get one of my trunks, and follow me up to the palace?”

 

The man’s face twisted into a knowing smile.  “How about you leave your trunk to be brought up by someone else, and we walk back together?”

 

“That would be _lovely_.”

 

“I’ll allow us to get to know each other a bit better –“

 

“I am _all_ for that.”

 

“And allow me to introduce you to my island.  Nice to see you again, Fury.”

 

_What?_

 

“It is a pleasure, my Lord.  Tony, may I reintroduce you to Stephanos of Athens, King of Korkyra?”

 

“You’re – _you’re_ Steve?”

 

“Last time I checked,” he deadpanned.

 

“You – you run naked around your island,” Tony stuttered.

 

Steve – because it _was_ Steve, he hadn’t taken into consideration that he might have grown a beard – smiled.  “Yeah.  For exercise.  Then everyone got used to seeing me every day.  Now I’m like some sort of watchman.”

 

“Like Talos,” Tony murmured through his fog.

 

“Well, not exactly like Talos.  He walked around Krete three times a day.  I only get around to doing it once,” Steve squinted at the sun, high in the sky.  “I’m not going to make you come along, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

 

“Why would I go on your run with you?”

 

Steve shrugged, eyes still on the sky.  “This mentoring thing?  Surely you haven’t forgotten?  Anyway, you wouldn’t be able to keep up with me.”  Steve looked back at him, appraising but unreadable.  “You know you don’t have put on any formalities here, don’t you?  This isn’t Athens.”

 

“And what do you know of Athens?” Tony spat, unexpected to himself.

 

“Well,” Steve replied coolly, “I was from there as much as you are.  I think I’ve had more experience than you have of everyone looking down their nose at me.”

 

Steve turned on heel, marching away, the muscles in his buttocks visibly shifting as he moved.

 

Tony rounded on Fury.  “Why didn’t you tell me it was him?”

 

Fury rolled his eye.  “Please.  You shot your mouth off on your own accord.”

 

“But I didn’t _know_ –“

 

“Don’t assume you know anything about how to operate here.  Forget what you’ve learned; you’re starting over, clean slate.”

 

“He’s an asshole.”  Hot, but an asshole.

 

Fury gave another knowing smile.  Tony was going to stab the next person who gave him one.  “Stop thinking you know anything about him.  There are legends, and there is reality.  He’ll give you the respect you give him.  And Tony,” Fury gestured around to the assorted dockworkers.  “Did no one ever tell you that gods often put on the faces of men and walk among us to test us?  Maybe don’t always assume people who come from the outside of large cites give everything away.  Now, you might as well go try and fix your little slip up?”

 

Tony was loath to take advice from Fury, wanted to vomit at the idea of apologizing, but what else could he do?  Korkyra was uncharted territory, and Tony had made the mistake of assuming.

 

And if he was to live here for a year, it was not in anyone’s best interest to be on the wrong foot with the king.  The man who he was supposed to be learning from.

 

Tony sprinted across the deck boards and over to where Steve was leisurely hiking up a hill, at a relaxed pace but somehow taking more ground then Tony running. Steve turned for a moment, caught sight of Tony tripping and stumbling in his _himation_ , and smirked as he speed up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shiiiiit, sorry I've left this to rot for a month. I had final tests and such and was just feeling . . . off. And I want to give this story the effort I can. I'm sorry that it's kind of slow right now, but I have a lot of setting up to do first. This is going to be loooong.

By the time Tony caught up with Steve, he was sweating profusely and his _himation_ was half hanging off him.  He swallowed around the dry lump in his throat as he panted.  “Umm, can I extend my sincerest apologies to the King of Korkyra, who I assumed would not be running around his island naked?”

 

Steve turned back to glare at Tony, hard line held between his eyebrows.  When Tony swallowed nervously, the serious face crumbled, and Steve was laughing at him.  Tony just stared at him in confusion for a moment.  “Not many people do,” Steve chuckled, dabbing at the moisture in his eyes.  “I would wear a diadem, but those tend to get sweaty.  Peggy told me you had a bit of a mouth on you, so I shouldn’t be surprised.  Don’t worry about it,” he clapped a hand to Tony’s back, nearly sending him sprawling into the dirt.  “A sharp tongue gets you farther these days than a sharp sword.  How about we start again?  I call you Tony, you call me Steve, alright?”

 

“Alright,” Tony conceded slowly, as Steve continued to chortle. 

 

“Sorry.”  Steve coughed once, straightened his shoulders, and Tony immediately saw the idealized hero they painted on pottery and sculpted for their foyers.  “You'll have to excuse me, but I don’t get to mess with people very often.  You’re fresh meat, I’m afraid.”

 

“Wonderful.  Are we headed anywhere?”

 

“The palace.  I should think you would like to rest after your journey?”

 

“That sounds great right about now.  You have actual mattresses, right?”

 

“If we don’t have any available, I’ll make you one myself.”  And Tony had to laugh.

 

After that, they proceeded in a companionable silence which allowed Tony to scramble to come to grips with his situation.

 

After all the legends and stories he’d heard over the years, Tony should have assumed that much of Steve’s true person wasn’t well known.  Tony suspected now that Howard barely knew the man at all.  Peggy’s testimonies we probably the most reliable, but she was always reluctant to share them and were always tinged with sadness when she did.

 

Steve seemed . . . normal.  For a king.  Nothing about him seemed to be concerned with putting on airs or making an impression.  He seemed unconcerned as to how anyone might perceive him.  Which Tony had to suppose was a good thing.  Tony could now tell that Steve had a decent sense of humor, but it would take some time to see exactly the extent Tony could go.  He seemed flexible, but Tony didn’t want to be tripping over himself for the next year if he had read the man wrong.

 

He was cryptic in his transparency.  In Athens, everyone on down to the slaves in the silver mines were concerned with obscuring any weakness from public view and twisting reality to meet their needs.  Tony expected Steve, as an Athenian by birth and breeding, to be much the same.  But now, Tony supposed he understood a little as to why he had quickly abandoned Athens for Korkyra.  The quiet earnestness that seemed to be the setting of Steve’s character would have him ripped to shreds back home.

 

Maybe, Tony reflected, it was in Athens herself that the problem lay, not the individuals.

 

The main town of Korkyra was located on a stubby peninsula that thrust out from the mainland.  A rocky outcropping at the tip was crowned by a few smallish, weather-beaten temples.  The town proper consisted of a small grouping of shabby but well-kept cottages and houses.  The palace, if it could be called that, sat high on the gentle slope that rolled down to the half-sheltered harbor.  It was certainly the largest building, and was slightly removed from the assortment of smaller houses and cottages.  There was no defined _agora_ , just tables and stalls set up on the main thoroughfare.

 

But it was charming in its humbleness.  The people smiled and waved openly, not kowtowing or attempting to curry favor.  Their eyes did seem to zero in on Tony, and plenty of whispers followed them, but nothing seemed outright malicious.  Their naked king didn't seem to phase them.

 

As they clared the maze of houses on their approach to the palace, Tony asked, “I don’t want to seem annoyed, but do they know who I am?”

 

Steve glanced around.  “I haven’t made an official announcement.  Would you like me to?  You’re not exactly here on an official capacity.  I was planning on just telling a few important individuals, and letting the word get around.  Whatever the case, the entire island will know by breakfast.”

 

“No, no, it’s fine.”  He was used to people talking about him.

 

As they crossed the threshold, a redheaded woman in a black _peplos_ darted forward, holding a linen sheet, which she artfully draped it around the cage of Steve’s chest and pulled the ends over his shoulder.  Obviously rote for him, Steve held the front as the woman quickly fastened it with a simple round sliver _fibula_ and handed him a leather thong which he knotted as a belt, pulling the excess fabric up, so the bottom hung around his knees.

 

It was an odd choice for a king to be wearing an _exomis_.  Tony had never seen them worn by anyone besides slaves and day laborers.  Yet somehow, the simple garment fit Steve, his legend, and the island.  So worried he was about feeling overdressed that he forgot to mourn the disappearance of the majority of Steve’s muscled form.

 

Well, it probably wouldn’t be the last time he saw the man naked.

 

The woman ducked away and came back with two _skyphoi_ , and handed one to each of them.  Tony took his immediately, but Steve paused, assessing the woman skeptically.

 

“You didn’t add anything to this?”

 

She arched an eyebrow innocently.  “My lord?”

 

“Oh,” Steve smirked.  “I see your game.”   He took his _skyphos_ and quickly drained it.  “No news?”  She shook her head, once, and took back the cup.  She looked at Tony, green eyes unusually sharp.

 

“Oh!”  He quickly brought the cup to his lips and drank . . . and immediately began hacking.  “ _Water?_ ”

 

Steve and the woman were looking down at him, faintly amused smiles on their lips.  Lightning quick, she stole the cup back from him.

 

“You know,” Steve said as she turned and disappeared deeper into the courtyard, “water isn’t actually bad for you.”

 

“You don’t have _wine_?” Tony gagged, trying to ineffectually scrape his tongue.

 

“We do.  But we tend to save that for when we can lounge about sipping with grace.”  And Tony could tell that it was mirth that was dancing in the man’s eyes.  So he hadn’t completely fucked up.  “Water makes the vines grow.  Can’t be that awful.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Tony muttered vacantly, still staring into the courtyard.  “You dress your slaves in black?”

 

“I don’t _dress_ my servants; they dress themselves.”

 

“But that woman was wearing black.  You pay for your slaves to wear black.”

 

“You’re astute, aren’t you?  But you’re assuming she’s a slave.  Natasha isn’t a slave.”

 

“She seems to know how to please.”

 

Obviously that was the wrong word.  An annoyed look flashed across Steve’s face.  “I wouldn’t say that to her, if you value your tongue.”

 

“So she doesn’t?”  Natasha seemed practiced in serving.

 

“No, she does.  But she also knows where you will sleep, and what dish you will eat from.  And she’s not a slave, nor a servant.  She won’t take kindly to you calling her anything of such.”

 

“So what does she do . . . ?”

 

“She earns her keep.”  He stepped forward, looking around appraisingly at the busy people darting about, very obviously not looking at them.  “I’m sorry to be so roundabout, but you understand that ears are everywhere.  Even friendly ears.”

 

“Of course.”  There were things that Tony didn’t want anyone to know, much less the gossiping servants.  But it seemed that it was prudent to retain that caution in Korkyra.

 

“Well, might as well show you around.”  Steve gestured around.

 

The main structure of the “palace” was like that of a larger house in Athens, but far more crowded and sparsely appointed.  The main house was the normal two stories, well-kept but showing its age, with a number of additions and outbuildings criss-crossed with low stone walls for corralling livestock in the winter, but in the summer divided the outside into workspaces.

 

Awnings had been erected, shading groups of women tending to their looms.  Others were spinning and dying fresh wool, others still carding it.  A pair of men were hauling down bales of freshly shorn wool from an ox-drawn cart as a woman directed them by swinging her distaff a little wildly.  There were also men shouting as they set up large barrels and presses, for both grapes and olives.  One aged man was shaping storage _amphorae_ in the middle of a mess of rush mats.  Steve gave him a running commentary.

 

“We do most of our work outside, so you might as well get used to it.  Not that I’m expecting you to become a regular laborer, but with the harvest coming up, all hands are needed.  We’ll start harvesting the wine grapes near the end of the month.  Olive harvest starts in Pyanepsion.  We shear the sheep about three times a year to prevent them from overheating, and we’re winding up the summer shearing.  And of course wheat in the summer and winter, and barley in the spring and autumn.  We use olive pomace to fertilize the fields.”  Steve stopped short as they entered the quiet house.  “I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

 

“No, no.  Sort of?  We don’t worry about the harvest so much as we get fed.”

 

Steve laughed, an honest-to-gods throw-back-your-head-and-guffaw.  “Don’t I remember.  Either we were starving or had to let food rot.  Korkyra’s agriculture is much more immediate to see than just waiting for the farmers to come to the _Agora_.”

 

“Well, I don’t even see that.  The slaves buy the food and bring it in.  It just appears on my table.”

 

Steve stared at him with understanding eyes, then strode off, naturally expecting Tony to follow.  “It’s a bit of an adjustment, I know.  Don’t think you have to immediately fall into the country life.  Just keep in mind the harvest dictates a large part of our time.”

 

“So, what will we be _doing_?”  Steve hadn’t really spoken yet about what he would be teaching him, in terms of kingship or heroism.  Tony supposed paying attention to the needs of the famers was something he could improve upon from his father’s complete disregard.  But Howard could have easily sent him into the Attic countryside to tend sheep if that was all he wanted him to learn.  “I mean, you seem nice enough, but Howard wouldn’t send me all this way to crush grapes and olives.”

 

“No, you’re right.”  Steve stopped at the foot of a set of stairs and pursed his lips.  “Do you know what he wants more than anything?”

 

“A Second Hydric War.”

 

“And it’s coming.  No, Howard doesn’t know, but it’s coming,” Steve nodded at Tony’s look of incredulity.  “The war wasn’t ended on the best terms.  Salting the ground and making sacrifices to the gods only made our enemies bitter.  Bitterness bends minds and will make man do anything for revenge.  And we can’t fight these things the same way.  That’s where we come in.” 

 

Steve turned to Tony, blue eyes inhumanly bright.  Like he was gauging what Tony was capable of.  “I think you have the necessary components to be a great hero, like those of old.  But individuals won’t work this time around.  We need a team of heroes this time.  I guess what I’m asking,” Steve stopped at the top of the stairs, turned and leaned against the wall.  Confident and absolutely gorgeous.  And holding Tony’s future in his hand.  “Are you willing to join us?”

 

“Like-like the Argonauts?”

 

“Well, not named after a boat.  We call ourselves the Alastors.  But much the same, yes.”

 

“But you’d need people with godly blood.  The gods have been absent.”

 

“No.  Anyone can have godly blood.  Many people do.  The gods are not celibate.  But they have withheld their blessings, to all but a very select few.  Might you know anyone like that?”  Steve smiled impishly.  Tony’s heart was hammering.  “But it’s not something I should dump on you all at once.”  He made his way down the narrow hall, stopping and pulling aside a curtain with a flourish after Tony stumbled up the stairs and reached him.  “You’ll be living here.  You can freshen up, take a nap, explore, if you’d like.  We’ll be having dinner in the throne room.”

 

“When?”  Tony gazed into the sparse room, only half listening as his mind whorled. 

 

“Nightfall.  Isn’t that usually when dinner is?  Now, I have a few things to tend to.  Namely, informing the gossipy old men why a well-dressed Athenian is here.  The others will be around to help you, if you need it.”  Steve strode back to the stairs, then stopped.  “Will you be alright?”

 

“It’s just . . . a lot to process.”  He steeled himself at the worry in his new mentor’s eyes.  “I’ve had an . . . interesting few days.  I’ll be fine.”

 

Steve favored him with a relived smile.  “Tony, I want you to feel comfortable becoming the best man you can be.  Not your ideal hero.  Not the king Howard wants you to be.  Just know that this is supposed to be a safe environment for you.”  And he turned and marched down the creaky stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I applaud you if you are getting the Greek names ;)
> 
> If you're at all confused about anything, feel free to ask. I don't get to rant about the Greeks enough.


	5. Chapter 5

The oil he had been supplied with wasn’t the best, but he supposed he’d have to get used to that.  It wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t the viscous liquid he was used to at home.  It was thinner, lighter, yellow rather than green, like the crappy stuff they sold in the _Agora_.  Tony dabbed a bit on his tongue.  Not bad.  Not Kretan, but Korkyra didn’t seem like the place that imported things it could produce.  The only man who could probably import was his host, and Tony doubted Steve would keep the best oil for himself.  But Tony liked it better than the earthy, fuller oil that came from Athens.  Korkyran olive oil was light and fruity, with a hint of grass.

 

Still gently sucking on his finger, Tony began to dig through the box resting on a small table next to the _aryballos_ of oil.  Inside he found several wood and bone combs, a small rectangular bronze mirror with a handle set with amethyst, and a couple _alabastrions_.  He gingerly removed the corks from the perfume bottles and sniffed.  One had the spicy-sweet scent of cinnamon and almond, the other a sharp waft of mint.  Corking the mint and placing it back in the box, he then dabbed the other perfumed oil on his wrists and behind his ears, and rubbed a bit into his beard.

 

After combing his hair and beard, Tony wandered over to one of the trunks that several men had brought up to his room.  Tony was fairly certain they weren’t proper palace servants, but he was beginning to think the entire island dropped what they were doing to help Steve.

 

He sighed, kicking through the trunks, trying to find the one holding his clothing and personal items.  He’d gotten some strange looks for having five large trunks, but four were filled with his tools and armor and pet projects.  He had no place to put them at the moment.  He would need to try and convince Steve to give him space for a workshop.

 

After he found his clothing, he dresses in a linen _peplos_ , feeling anything else would look like he was trying to show off, though he didn’t deny himself a golden _fibula_ or his amulet.  Deciding having all the trunks out wouldn’t be the best for his shins, he dragged the armor-filled trunks into a corner and set up the one with clothing by the bedstead.

 

Tony had spent a while now getting used to the room, exploring the contents, and trying out the mattress (it would do nicely).  But as always, he was itching for something to do.

 

There was a table set up with scrolls of papyrus, ink, pens, wax tablets, engraving tools, and sealing wax, along with a jar of pottery shards by one of the table’s legs.  Tony thumbed the paper.  It was very fine, Egyptian more than likely.  One of the wax tablets had been used.  Tony recognized the hand from stolen glimpses of Peggy’s correspondence.  _Everything in the room is for your use.  If you would like to write home, ships and messengers leave every few days._

 

It was more than a little confusing; Tony was used to hosting kings to give him the best in terms of garments, wine, entertainment, prostitutes.  Their perfumed guest rooms were filled with the finest silks, dyed Tyrrhenian purple and trimmed in gold and silver, and pretty slaves would bathe him before escorting him to bed.  Here in Korkyra, it was bare bones compared to what Tony was used to, but it was clear Steve was giving him the best he had.  The bed was sturdily made from olive wood with a good mattress and dressed with linen and a fine woolen _stromata_ that looked perfect for keeping away morning chill without suffocating him in the heat.  The perfume was probably local, but perfume was expensive from anywhere.  Papyrus was outrageously expensive, but Steve had still given him some to write home with.  Even in Athens, he had to get Jarvis’ approval to take paper.

 

Some small part of him was telling him that if Steve hadn’t set up the room personally, he at least made all the decisions regarding it.

 

He thought about writing to his mother, Peggy, Pepper, and Rhodey, but he didn’t feel up for it.  They’d only have questions that he couldn’t answer.  And anyway, Peggy was the only one who knew Steve, and even then Tony suspected the man had probably changed over ten years.

 

Steve was even honest in his lying.  Tony had never met anyone who would up front _tell_ you that they couldn’t tell you much.  It was all about bluff and distraction.  And Tony was a master of that game.  But the rules out here were something completely foreign to him.

 

Tony sat, and stared unseeingly out the window.

 

The man had smelt like basil and sweat.

 

While he’d heard stories, and had some small personal experience from after the war, Tony wasn’t at all prepared for seeing the man as . . . well, a man.  Steve was beautiful, undoubtedly.  But Tony was used to beautiful people; Steve had also smiled, and looked at him with genuine concern.  Like he might care for Tony already.

 

But, Tony reminded himself bitterly, Steve had a legend built on caring for everyone.

 

He got up to explore the rest of the house.

 

 

 

From the quite nature of it, the upper floor was reserved for Steve’s digression.  After peaking around, Tony found several rooms similar to his own, but more lived-in.  From weapons hanging innocently on the wall, they were soldiers or fighters of a sort.  Not normal _hoplites_ as far as Toy could tell.  They seemed . . . specialized.  He was fairly certain one room belonged to a woman.  So much for separating the men and the women, not that Tony would protest.  He spent far too much time in the women’s quarters to complain too loudly.

 

The presumed woman’s room was located closest to a second set of back stairs, presumably for servants.  Her room had nothing in the way of looms or spinning; the most feminine objects were several vases of flowers and a table set with a large circular bronze mirror, brushes, and _pyxides_ for makeup and jewelry.  There was an open chest filled with simple dark tunics, so Tony assumed the room belonged to the mysterious Natasha.  Judging by the daggers and the jars of what looked like poison, she was more like Peggy than he might have assumed.

 

There were three other, more male rooms in addition to his and Natasha’s.  One, immediately to the left of Natasha’s, was bare except for a ridiculous number of archery supplies, like the man was stockpiling arrows.  Another room was a bit more lived in than the first two, with a cithara and a well-used desk.  It was quite sunny, with two walls with windows, shutters thrown open.  There was also an empty bird perch, so Tony wondered if this one belonged to the falcon Redwing’s owner.

 

The last room was presumably Steve’s.  Tony’s was immediately to the right of it.  It was definitely the largest, even though it was maybe half the size of Tony’s bedroom in Athens.  It overlooked the central courtyard, and the long curtains gave it a womb-like atmosphere, similar to his mother’s, but while her solar was warm and bright, Steve’s was cool and calming.  The bed was just as nice as Tony’s, if bigger, and neatly made up.  A couple of tables were filled with ledgers and dispatches.  Even though the poked through a few trunks, Tony couldn’t find a scrap of the man’s armor or iconic shield.

 

Quickly growing bored of the upstairs rooms, Tony decided to scope out the rest of the buildings.  He took the back stairs down, leading him into a cramped hallway, next to a small kitchen.  Several cooks were preparing dinner by the sound of it.

 

The hall lead out into a back courtyard with an intricate swept mosaic floor with a stylized alpha.  Some exercise equipment and practice weapons were packed away neatly in a corner.  A low gate led into an orchard, filled with ancient trees behind the high walls.  It was early yet to harvest anything, but he could see the beginnings of apples and pears, pomegranates and figs.  A dirt patch near the gate probably served as a wrestling ring.  Outside the walls, a poppy-strewn field grew wild.

 

There was a small, sturdily-built shed off to the side.  It looked as though it had been once used as a room for packing fruit and grain with its partly open sides, but had been left to rot for a long while.  One wall had been bricked in recently, forming a nice-looking forge.  A brand new anvil block lay in the middle of the freshly swept floor.  But it looked vacant.  There were no ashes in the fireplace, and the tools on the wall were dull from lack of use.

 

Seeing it opened a chasm of wanting in Tony.  He’d spend his happiest hours in the smithy behind the kitchens, hauling water and begging for a chance to bang out even a small piece of metal that he would show his mother proudly by the end of the day.  His favorite had been a particularly burly smith, who no one even seemed to know by name, but still created amazing metalworks.  As he got older, Tony had wondered why the man hadn’t been taken to the frontlines.  But as soon as he’d asked, people looked at him like he was crazy, like the man didn’t exist.  But he had _been there_ , Tony remembered clear as crystal.

 

It might take a bit of finagling, but if no one was using the forge, and he made a good impression on Steve, he might get use of the outbuilding.  Steve seemed to want to give him the things he would need to be comfortable.  He allowed the spark of hope that he might like Korkrya grow into a little fire.

 

As Tony approached the shed to get a better look, a voice called out “If you’re here to steal her poppy pods, realize she has given me permission to shoot you.”

 

“Uh, you would shoot someone over poppy pods?”

 

“Well, I don’t need the target practice.  But I’d rather shoot you than get stabbed by her.”  The owner of the voice came around from where he had been behind the shed, bow drawn back.  The man was blond, but darker than Steve, and his rather sparse beard was pain brown.  He was dressed like a hunter in a deerskin tunic, and he had a pair of large silver earrings that cuffed his earlobes.  “Oh.”  The archer loosened the tension of his bow and lowered it.  “Well, I’m guessing you’re Tony.  But it’s not likely you know of me.  Kyllenius of Ætolia, but you can call me Clint.”

 

“Uhh, Antinous, Prince of Athens.  Do I need the whole epithet?”  Clint laughed but shook his head, silver earrings jangling.

 

“Nah, unless you want mine.  Hey Nat, does he know yet?”

 

The woman from before, the one Steve called Natasha, had snuck up from behind.  Her black _peplos_ was hiked up over her knees and tucked into her girdle.  She had a shallow basket balanced on one hip, and a needle-like blade in the other.

 

She nodded gracefully.  “Nyceta of Sparta.  Don’t bother introducing yourself.  We know who you are.  And no, Clint.  Steve will tell him, when he’s ready.”

 

“Tell me what?”  They just smiled and exchanged glances.  “Realize I’m going to be annoying if you don’t tell me.”

 

“I’m counting on it.  But realize I am not new to this game.”  Natasha strolled over, flicked Clint’s bicep, and poured the contents of her basket into one of the three larger ones by Clint’s feet.  Poppy heads.

 

“Making opium?”  She held up her knife in lieu of answer.  There looked to be dried poppy latex on the blade.

 

“After the seed pods dry she picks them, and she and Bruce put them into storage.”

 

“And then usually you and Sam steal the seed to feed to the birds.  Oh yes, I’m onto you,” she responded to Clint’s affronted glare.

 

“Not to be rude, but just who are you two?”

 

“We’re Alastors, new friend.  Welcome to the club.”  Clint jumped up on a stool, which Natasha promptly kicked over and sent him tumbling into the dirt.  Tony pointed at her.

 

“You’re – an Alastor?”

 

She fixed him with a confidence-crushing glare.  “Yes.  Is that an issue?”

 

“Not at all.”

 

She stared at him for a while.  Tony wanted to squirm under her scrutiny.  “Well, you can make up for being rude by carrying my baskets for me.”

 

Natasha drew the canvas covers over the baskets.  Tony obligingly picked one up, knowing better than to argue with a woman like that, and allowed Natasha to stack the other one on top of it.  The seed pods were exceptionally heavy.  Clint picked up the last basket, and wandered after them.

 

They passed once again through the back courtyard.  “Just for your information, we spend a lot of time here.  This and the orchard just behind us act as our exercise yard.  But Steve likes to mix it up, take us around the island to practice different tasks.  We also bathe out here every six days or so,” Natasha supplied, stopping only a moment to bend down and run her fingers across the pebble mosaic.

 

“It’s a really nice floor.”

 

“Be sure you tell Steve that.  He made it.”

 

“What?”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes.  “He gets like that sometimes.  He just randomly decides one day that he’ll rip up a floor and add a mosaic, or he’ll paint a mural on a wall.  I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t done our rooms yet.”

 

“Wait six months,” Clint advised.

 

Natasha ignored him, so Tony was fairly sure that was the right course of action.  “He’s an artist?”

 

“Mmm-hmm,” Natasha kicked a wooden gate open, leading the way through a storage yard that seemed to wrap around the side of the house.  There were a few broken-down carriages, stacks of _amphorae,_ crates of unknown contents.  Further down, a small hut seemed to protrude from the foundations, next to an area filled with several cots under an awning, like a field hospital.  “He likely would have been a pottery painter if he hadn’t gone off to war.  He still enjoys it, when he gets the time.”

 

“Okay, since you seem to know what’s going on, what do you think he’s gonna have me do?”

 

“Well, I’m not sure, seeing as you're a prince and have those things to do, but as far as Alastors go, we can guess.  I was the first Alastor Steve recruited to actually live here with him.  There are several other Alastors, but they have their own lives.  You know Karnis of Thebes?”  Tony nodded.  “She’s one.  Also Harpalyce and Iphinoë of Argos?  Do you know them?”

 

Tony tripped over a carriage’s spare trace and nearly spilled the basket.  “Jan is an old friend.  I haven’t made up my mind about her husband yet.”  Natasha nodded in a way that said “Fair enough.”  “But no, what I am I _here_ for?”

 

“I was getting to that.  When I first came here, I was . . . coming out of a difficult situation, you could say.  Steve encouraged me to rest, then after a while we began training exercises.  Teamwork sorts of things.  Then when Clint arrived, we adapted so he felt included.  Same when Sam arrived.  Bruce isn’t one much for more militaristic training, but we’ve included him on everything else, because his . . . other half needs to be comfortable with us.  We’ve tried it a few times with the other guy, and it seems to work.”

 

“Who are Sam and Bruce?”  Tony did a mental tally of the rooms, and if he was to assume everyone had their own, he was one short.

 

“You’ll meet Sam later.  He’s probably off hanging out with some birds.”

 

“That sounds awesome right about now,” came Clint’s muffled shout.

 

“Birds?”

 

“Ignore them both.  They’re weird.  But Bruce,” Natasha pointed with her chin, “lives out here.  Bruce?” she called.

 

Muffled swearing came from a small recessed alcove set into the foundations of the house.  It looked a bit like a permanent market stall, with simple wooden columns supporting a low tiled roof.  Tarps and awning and wreaths of dried poppies were wrapped around the columns, a bunch of storage baskets and jars were stacked around the sides, and there were stairs running into the ground, leading to a dark cubby.  The tarp acting as a door whipped open, issuing a lot of blue smoke and a small man.  He coughed, waving his hand in front of his face.  He looked slightly timid, with hunched shoulders and a burn-spotted _exomis_ that obviously needed a wash.  “Ah, Natasha, you have the poppy pods.  Well, leave them here.  I'll get to them in the morning.  Clint, don’t touch that, it might blow up, not that that’s ever stopped you.  And you must be Tony.”

 

Tony deposited the basket where Bruce indicated, and after wiping his hands on his tunic, shook Bruce’s offered hand.  “Brimo of Epidarus.  I’ve heard a bit about you.  You’re a metallurgist, right?”

 

“That’s not what people usually remember, but yes,” Tony agreed, pleased.  “Antinous, Prince of Athens.  What do you do?”  He gestured at the shrouded workspace.

 

Bruce chuckled.  “Well, I mostly live out here.  Steve offered me a room in the main house, but that wasn’t the best idea for me.  I’m a bit of a chemist, and a healer.  If you start bleeding randomly, they’ll probably bring you to me.”

 

“And that’s why Clint is so familiar with the area,” Natasha noted as she snagged the back of his quiver as Clint tried to sneak into Bruce’s . . . cave.  “We’re having dinner soon.  Would you like to risk an unwelcome appearance because you have no self control?”

 

Clint glanced nervously over at Bruce, who shrugged with a grin.

 

“So, you’re a healer,” Tony turned back to Bruce as Clint and Natasha started sniping at each other about stealing Bruce’s food.

 

“Yes.  Though, I’m much more partial to mixing up something and telling you to drink it or apply it twice a day than I am to stopping traumatic injuries.  When I lived in Epidarus that was what I did.  But since Steve convinced me to become an Alastor and move to Korkyra, and there aren’t a ton of practiced healers here.  Sure, most people can set a bone temporarily and staunch moderate bleeding, but I have more knowledge, and they were coming to me for advice, so I capitulated rather quickly.”  Bruce rubbed a hand through his beard.  “Small price to pay.”

 

“ _You’re_ an Alastor?  Not that I don’t think you’re physically capable or anything –“

 

Bruce just laughed.  “You’re right.  Don’t worry; saying I’m not much of a fighter doesn’t offend me.  But there are more me’s than meet the eye.”  Bruce’s smile was pained.  He turned to the other two, who looked ready to stage a wrestling match to rival one of Herakles’.  “Should we be heading to dinner?  Sun’s getting low.”

 

“Wait, wait, wait.  Just what do Alastors _do_?”

 

Clint made a victory noise as he dug a pear out of a covered basket.  “Answer’s in the name, man.  We avenge.”

 

 

 

No one seemed to want to tell Tony _what_ they were avenging, but he could deduce it was some sort of vague ideal.  But the Alastors themselves seemed very vague.  It was probably best to assume that eventually he would be enlightened to their secrets (they seemed to _want_ to share, they just couldn’t for some reason), but almost immediately, Tony felt included.

 

Bruce was nice if a bit gloomy, and chatted amicably with him about his work as they made their way towards the throne room.  Clint was odd, but he seemed good-natured, maybe not harmless but not intentionally cruel either.  Natasha seemed to be the most dangerous, but something about her said that she was on her second chance and had no intention of fouling it up.  Tony asked Bruce if there was something between them.  His dry response was “Air.”

 

There seemed to be a certain hazing element to their teasing, goading him to see how he responded.  The camaraderie seemed fairly natural between them, but the easy way they melded around him was foreign.  He could count the people in Athens who treated him like a friend on one hand.

 

Those working in the yards surrounding the palace had largely packed up and headed home, a few loiterers chatting about this and that.  Word seemed to have gotten out, because they pointed at him and the word “Athenian” drifted through the early evening air.  It was said with no malice, only curiosity, but Tony was fairly certain he would not be making intimate friends outside the Alastors.

 

Natasha led the way, Tony and Bruce right behind her.  Clint seemed to have a habit of wandering, zigzagging to and fro as different things caught his interest.  Tony remarked that he seemed a bit like a dog, to which the other two responded, “No.  A lot like a bird.”

 

They wound through the main courtyard, which Steve had bypassed earlier.  The floor here was also done in breathtaking mosaic, this time a white and blue geometric pattern.  A few cooking fires burned lowly near the walls as the poor made their dinners.

 

“Steve gives them shelter in the main hall at night.  Though they’ll be waiting a bit longer tonight,” Natasha supplied.

 

“How’s that?”

 

She looked at him strangely.  “We’re having a bit of a feast to welcome you.  Did you not know?”

 

“No, I didn’t.”  Just another thing that filled Tony with confusing warmth.  Elsewhere he would be offended of not being welcomed with a lavish banquet in his honor.  But the obvious lengths Steve and the others seemed to be going, as sparse as they were comparatively, to bring him into their fold were touching.  Tony wasn’t sure how to respond.

 

The throne room obviously was the only room of any decent size to be called a proper hall.  The bronze doors were propped open, flickering torchlight warmly paving the path.

 

Inside, the room was in the traditional layout: throne against the right wall, hearth in the middle.  The wooden columns were wound with wreaths of summer grass and flowers, adding a sweet scent to the slightly stuffy room.  Several tables were laden with platters of bread and roast meat, and there were baskets of fruit, dishes of vegetables and olives.  Four couches were set in a between the four columns at the corners of the hearth, making a circle around the fire.

 

The room was empty save for a darkly colored man in a bright saffron _peplos_ with long sleeves, gold broaches shaped like the sun acting as fasteners.  He had a falcon perched on his shoulder, the same one who had flown over the trireme before, if Tony could trust his eyes.  The man was feeding the bird bits of food, sometimes putting the pieces between his lips for the falcon to take.

 

“Heya, Sam.”  The man grunted in response to Clint as the falcon snatched an olive from between his lips.  “How are our babies?”

 

“They molted their first feathers a few months ago and they’re flying unaided.  Stop calling them babies.”

 

“Never,” Clint declared, stanching up a platter of roast pork and heading over to lounge across one of the couches.

 

“Sthenele of Rhodes.”  He held out a hand, the one that wasn’t stroking the falcon.  “And this is Redwing.”

 

“Uh, Antinous, Prince of Athens.  My brother’s mother is from Rhodes,” he blurted for lack of anything else to say.

 

“Cool.  Has he ever _actually_ been?”

 

“I don’t think so.”  Sam fixed him with a look.  “Rhodea left Athens not long after he was born.  He doesn’t have a name other than Rhode that we know of.”

 

“So . . . he’s Athenian?”

 

“For all intents and purposes . . . yes.”

 

The falcon let out a particularly shrill shriek.  Sam held up a bit of fig and the bird swallowed it whole.  “Okay, I get that, I completely understand your thought process, but I’ve never been to Athens, so I can’t judge.”

 

“You talk to birds.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I do, too!” Clint spit abound a rib.

 

“You _try_ ,” Sam snorted,

 

“Okay, you’re all insane.  Cool.  Shouldn’t we be waiting for Steve to eat?”

 

“He doesn’t care,” Bruce told him, neatly folding bread into a platter of beans the seemed to have claimed for his own.  “Anyway, there likely won’t be much food left when he gets here, the way he eats.”

 

“Wine?” Natasha asked him, holding out a _kylix_.  Tony accepted it gratefully, noting the illustration of Herakles and Kerberus on the sides.  He took a sip.  It was good, for a rough country wine.  Sweet and slightly smoky.  He followed the example of the others taking platters to the couches and stopped when he saw the wall.

 

“That-that’s his _shield_?”

 

Sam looked up, small piece of bread caught between his teeth as Redwing snatched it from him.  “Yeah?  Made by Hephæstus himself, or so they say.”  He winked, then when back to picking over a platter of vegetables.

 

Tony had helped make that shield.  The smith who only Tony could see had hammered the smooth, shallow dome of silver metal.  Tony had been allowed to hold the tongs while he’d gazed in wonder at the metal he couldn’t identify in the slightest.  He’d begged and pleaded to know which metal he was using or who he was making it for, but the smith had only smiled cryptically.

 

An icy finger on his bicep made him jump.

 

“Problem?  Are you feeling ill?”  Something in Natasha’s eyes told him she suspected something.  She seemed to know what he was thinking.

 

“N-nothing.”

 

He turned to greet the sound of conversation.  Steve, now in a more formal light blue _peplos_ , was in deep discussion with Fury.  “Ah, Tony, I see you’ve met everyone.  Have you settled in?”

 

“I  . . . think?”

 

Steve cocked his head for a moment, then smirked and shook himself.  “Has anyone made any proper sacrifices to the gods?” he asked, obviously not expecting an affirmative.

 

Clint threw a just-gnawed pork bone into the fire.  “I win.  Pay up, bitches.”

 

Steve just shook his head again.  “Tony, you’ll be sitting with me, as my guest of honor.  Fury, that gives you a couch to yourself.”

 

“Wonderful.”  Fury already had a loaded platter and laid himself out on an unoccupied couch.

 

“Tony?”  Steve came up to him, very close, and Tony could smell honey on his breath.  “Are you alright?”

 

“Fine, fine.”

 

Steve smiled, like dawn sun in the evening twilight.  “Good.  Let’s honor the gods, _then_ feast, shall we?”

 

Everyone save Fury groaned in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that's not a proper symposium. I'll get to that later. As I keep saying "Tony-boy, you ain't in Athens anymore."
> 
> As always, if you're curious or confused about anything regarding the Greeks, customs, names, ect, I don't bite!


	6. Chapter 6

Tony stared at his reflection in the wine, darkened and yet crystal clear.  He looked . . . young.  It was easy to forget sometimes that he was only in his twentieth summer, just barely considered a man.  He wouldn’t likely marry for another twenty years, couldn’t become a general without ignoring the laws, could barely scratch his ass without his father’s permission.  It didn’t help that he was highly aware of being the youngest in the room.  Fury seemed ageless, but had the temperament and appearance of an elderly man.  Bruce was likely is his forties, and from the public story, Steve was in his thirtieth year (though he might be older, if the stories of him being a runt were true).  Clint and Sam seemed to be in their mid-to-late twenties, and Natasha was likely only a year or two older than him.  In normal Athenian society, he would be young, but with the upper hand of status, wealth, and heroism.  None of that seemed to apply in Korkyra.  Here, _philia_ dominated.

 

Still staring vacantly into his wine, he was filled with a fierce determination to not only prove himself, but to thrive here, and not just to gain these people’s respect, but to belong in their midst and their love.

 

The edge of his irises seemed to glow like a wire in fire.

 

He shook himself and turned back to the dinner conversation.

 

It was probably very rude not to be contributing much to the conversation, but there wasn’t much that he could contribute, and anyway, Fury seemed content to eat his olives in silence.  Bruce was telling them about how he had gone to Kassiopi early that morning to treat a woman for hemorrhaging after the birth of twin sons.  He’d been able to stop her bleeding, thankfully, and had even helped her with the difficulty she had with her milk coming in.  Mother and babies were doing well, he was glad to report, and her husband promised that as soon as she regained her strength and removed the pollution from their house, they would make the trip down to the main town of Korkyra to make appropriate sacrifices to the gods in thanksgiving for their blessings.  With a blush, Bruce told them that the father had offered to name one of the boys in his honor.  Bruce had begged him not to, but the man was hell-bent on at least naming one of the boys Brimus.

 

Everyone seemed to know the family, and were asking a bunch of questions, about how healthy the boys were, if Bruce was sure her bleeding was permanently stopped, if the woman’s sister was still going to marry such-and-such.  As far as Tony could tell, the community on the island was very small and interconnected.  So another way he was different.  The only people he knew were the ones he had met that day.

 

Steve seemed very excited at the prospect of healthy twins, but those were the types of blessings one did not hear about often, and Tony guessed it should be right for a king to be interested in the goings-on of his people.  A look of concern crossed Steve’s face as he glanced over at Tony, who was lying on the couch at his right.  “How rude of me.  We’ve been excluding you.”

 

“Steve,” Sam muttered as Redwing licked fig juice off his fingers, “we’ve all been being rude then.”

 

Steve turned to him and frowned.  “But I am the host, and therefore I should take responsibility-“  The rest of what he was said was drowned in collective groaning.

 

“Greetings,” Clint pitched his voice lower and adopted an Athenian accent, “my name is Stephanos, but you can call me Steve because I fuckin’ _hate_ formality.  I am so sorry that you were a complete idiot and got shot in the leg after disobeying a direct order, but as it was on _my_ watch, I will assume complete responsibility for your stupidity.  Now watch me nag you for being foolhardy, then I will proceed to taunt men with big swords.”

 

“Uncanny,” Natasha said as Sam snickered.

 

“Shaddup,” Steve whined, hurling an olive and hitting Clint squarely between the eyes.

 

Everyone waited a beat before dissolving into raucous laughter.  Tony was left to stare.  Fury continued munching on an onion like none of the rest existed.

 

It was all very surreal to Tony.  While there might be many of the trappings of a _symposium_ , it most certainly wasn’t one.  There were no servants offering platters, no mixing of wine in great _kraters_ , no dancing girls and cithara boys.  They made the obligatory sacrifices to the gods, but it was not followed by the custom drinking songs or songs of thanksgiving.  Hell, there was no divide between eating and drinking.  Whenever anyone wanted more of anything, they went and got it for themselves.  But probably the oddest thing was there was no patterned conversation.  No going around and speaking for approximately the same amount of time.  Nothing was formal about it.

 

Tony would guess it was more in line with a _syssitia_ , with its easy familiarity, like those of battle-allies sharing a meal after rewarding battle.  But even then, it was very informal.  The only time anyone had addressed Steve in any proper way was Natasha when she was pretending to be a servant to scope Tony out.  Tony could tell Steve considered the Alastors as his equals, and interacted with them as such; allowing them to tease him and ribbing them right back.

 

It was such a different vision of Steve from the legends Tony was used to hearing.  Over and over, he was astounded by just how natural Steve seemed.  Nothing about him was kingly aside from his stature and his looks, though those could maybe be called godly.  Yet he maintained an aura of nobility.  Not like those of the upper crust, but it seemed to be in his very bones that he was kind, and gracious, and brave, and unyielding.

 

“So,” Steve turned back to Tony, eyes shimmering with leftover mirth.  “Is there anything that you maybe want to know?”

 

“I, uh, can’t think of anything right now.”

 

Steve nodded.  “So, by that you mean you want to know everything.”

 

“Actually – yes.  What-“

 

“That’s my cue to duck out,” Fury announced, smacking his lips as he slurped the last of his wine.  “I’m leaving tomorrow, so I should leave you to yourselves and get some rest.”

 

“Where are you headed?” Sam asked.

 

“I’m leaving early for Sicilia and the Apennine Peninsula.  I’m not certain I’ll find anyone new.  But it won’t hurt to look.  I can’t exactly vet everyone, can I?”

 

“You cannot.  Please do keep me posted if you do find anyone,” Steve requested.

 

“That I will.”

 

“How long will you be there?”

 

“Well, I’m going to try and hit as many places as I can, and, well, drift where the gods will me.  It might be next spring until I return.  Unless I find someone new, then I will deliver them here with posthaste.”

 

“If you are in Zancle,” Tony found himself saying, “do not hesitate to request hospitality from my uncle Polyxenus.  He detests my father, but adores my mother and misses her terribly.  If you seek harbor in my name, I am sure he will treat you kindly.”

 

“I will be sure to remember that,” Fury said as he rose from his couch.  “I have not been to Zancle since the reign of your late grandfather.  So it might be time.”

 

“Thank you, Fury, if I do not see you before you depart tomorrow,” Steve declared, “for all you do, and for delivering Tony safely to us.  I am confident now that our ranks are flushed to the extent we need them.  If something arises, I am not worried of our chances.”

 

“Send me a message by bird if you need me back for any reason.”  Fury bowed stiffly, then dissipated into the night.

 

Redwing let out a particularly shrill screech and flapped his wings indignantly.  “Nah,” Sam confided, “I’ll send someone else.  Don’t get your feathers in a twist.”

 

“So, what does Fury do?”  It was a good as a place to start as anywhere.

 

“He’s a bit like a recruiter,” Steve told him.  “He scours different places, trying to find anyone with the . . . qualifications needed to be an Alastor.  We’re rather few and far between, but the gods reveal those they see fit in time.  If they’re hesitant to join, Fury will contact me and I will travel in disguise to try and convince them.  Which almost always happens.”  He glowered good-naturedly at the others.  Bruce had the courage to look abashed.  “He also keeps those others in our network informed.  Not everyone can live here, and I understand that.”

 

“Alright, I’ll buy that.  Why was I such a different case?”

 

“Because of who you are, Tony.”  Steve smiled at him in approval, like he was, maybe, _proud_ of him.  Which couldn’t be right.  “Your reputation, unlike everyone else’s precedes you.  Except maybe a few reputations we will not name, because it is unnecessary.”  Steve’s voice had risen, points of color high in his cheeks, determinedly not looking at Natasha, who was laughing at him.  “But Tony.  The things we do, you’re already doing in a sense.  I thought you might have what it takes when I saw you ten years ago.  When I began hearing stories of what you’d done . . . I _knew_ I was right.  But it’s been difficult getting you here.  Unlike everyone else, getting you here was more than just asking you.  I’ve had to deal with Howard.  I’ve offered many times to have you come here to mentor with me; at least, that was what I told him.  But his response was always an offer of him hosting me if I came back to Athens.  Howard is many things, but an idiot is not one of them, and I would not be able to pull the wool over his eyes if I was there.  He’d never approve of you becoming an Alastor, but it’s your _destiny_ , Tony.  It was just a matter of wearing him down enough to where he finally agreed.”

 

“So, you wanted to get me away from him.  Why didn’t you just return to Athens in person?  I’d have stowed away even if he said no.”

 

Steve sighed and rubbed has hand through his beard.  “I _have_ been to Athens.  Several times.  But I couldn’t go to him in person.  I’ve depended heavily on Peggy’s insistence.  She’s quite the persuasive one.”  A flash of sadness filled his eyes.  “I mainly went back to confer with her.  She’s quite fond of you.  It would have been another ten years before Howard agreed without her.  And by then it might be too late.”

 

“Peggy?” Clint asked.

 

“Megamede of Naxos,” Natasha supplied.  “One of the most famous _hetaera_ in the world.  She was able to buy her freedom during the war.  She seduces men of power, then forces them to reveal their secrets.  She works in Athens for the most part.  Though she does travel.  She was the one who informed Steve of my existence and convinced him to buy me.”  She cleared her throat.  “She and Steve were . . . rather close, during the war.  You know all the letters he gets from Athens?  Most of them are from her.   I know you snoop.”

 

Clint nodded.  “Just needed the name, thank you, but by all means give me the whole biography.  And don’t tell everyone about my snooping.  Not that I do it.”

 

Natasha just rolled her eyes.  “We all do it.  But Peggy is the main woman in Steve’s life, wouldn’t you say?”  She frowned at him.

 

Steve waved a hand dismissively.  “Angitia takes care of her.  I hold no grudges.  They are happy.”

 

Natasha gave him a look of pity.  “Peggy would be _happier_ if you had someone, too.”

 

Steve shifted uncomfortably.  “Natasha, let it go.”

 

“No.  Not until I don’t have to deal with anymore sad, lonely Steve.”

 

“I say this as a friend: you need to get laid,” Sam quipped.

 

“This isn’t about me right now!”

 

“Sure, sure,” Natasha relented, turning on Tony with a lascivious grin.  “Tell us a bit about yourself.  Your family, life in Athens, do you have an _eraetes_ –“

 

“Natasha!”  Steve sounded scandalized.  “That’s enough!”

 

“No _eraetes_ ,” Tony said over Steve.  “There’ve been offers . . . .”  He shuddered.  “But no.”

 

She grinned victoriously at Steve, who pressed his face into a pillow and groaned.  “Please, tell us more.”

 

“Well,” Tony began awkwardly, “my father’s family tree begins with Theseus.  Or Poseidon, if you want.  He had two sons with Pheadra, Demophon and Acamas, who both fought in the Trojan War.  They were all run out of Athens eventually, except for Daphoenissa, Theseus and Pheadra’s daughter.  She had a son by Hermes, Stheino, who eventually became king.  Stheino had my father, Hoples, and well, then came me.”

 

There was a moment of silence.  “Wow.  You just . . . don’t care about the fact that you’re descended from so much history?” Natasha asked, not is shock, but in a calculating manner

 

“Look, it’s not a big deal.  Not anymore,” Tony stuttered.  “I don’t really care about it.  Theseus is really the only name people know, and I’m maybe one-sixteenth?  It doesn’t matter.”

 

“Hermes isn’t just anyone,” Bruce pointed out slowly.

 

“Yeah, but he’s just my great-grandfather.  The gods barely care about their kids, much less those that far down the line.  My bloodline isn’t what defines me.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“Here, here,” Bruce acknowledged unexpectedly.

 

“I’ll drink to that.”  Clint tried to down the rest of the contents of his _kylix,_ but ended up spilling it down the front of his front.  Natasha made a noise of disgust and moved to lounge on Fury’s vacated couch.

 

Tony turned to Steve, and was suddenly aware of how close the man was.  His face was only a _pous_ away from Tony’s.  Steve was leaning towards him, easy open smile and warm, understanding eyes, approval leaking from every pore.  Tony wanted to pull him closer, and feel this embodiment for heroism pressed against him.  His voice was low, intimate.  “I have to say that you are right.  Who your father is does not determine who you are.”

 

As quickly as it happened, Tony closed himself off, and averted his gaze, staring into the fire.  “What are you saying?” he bristled.

 

Steve sighed and leaned back on his arms.  “Don’t think I’m not aware of your . . . situation.  I might even have more information regarding it than yourself.”

 

“Bullshit,” he found himself spitting.

 

“Tony –“ Steve straightened.  “I feel I am at liberty to say I know Howard better than you.”

 

“Of course you can.  You’re his _friend_ , aren’t you?”

 

“No.”

 

There was a tense pause.  Tony risked looking up, to see Steve’s face cracked with old annoyance.

 

“But – he always said you two were friends.”

 

“‘Friend’ is a subjective term, especially in the world of war and kings.  ‘Comrade’ might equate with friend, but it is not true.  There are those you work with because you have to.  That is what Howard is to me.  But these people,” he gestured around at his ragtag crew, “are my family.”

 

The rest had fallen quite during their heated discussion.  Clint was dabbing a cloth at his wine-stained beard and tunic, Sam had his eyes averted as he scratched Redwing with one finger, Bruce was picking at a nick in the glaze on his _kylix_.  Natasha was the only one openly watching them, her eyes darting between them, gaze filled with speculation and maybe a bit of joy.  She smiled at them over the crimson flames, like she saw what they each wanted and was going to go through Tartaros to obtain it.

 

“And you want me – to be part of your family,” Tony finished.

 

“I want to know if you would _like_ to,” Steve huffed.  “I want to know if you want to become a part of us.  If you are willing.”

 

“I have a family, I just told you.”

 

“Tony, don’t think you have to pretend,” Natasha reasoned, “you told us about Howard.  Now, tell us about your _family_.”

 

“Well,” Tony conceded to her fierce eyes.  “There’s my mother.  I think I love her more than anything.  Pepper, my sister.  She sort of runs my life.  Rhodey, my brother.  He’s like my second-in-command.  Peggy and Angie.  A few friends, smattered across the mainland and the Peloponnese.  My mother’s family in Zancle, though I rarely see them.  And, that’s it, I think.”

 

A fury of nodding, like this explanation made much more sense than the previous one.

 

“Tony.”  And Steve was smiling at him again, why did he keep smiling at him?  “I’m not asking you to jump into this without any forethought.  Just, being in a group of . . . equals, might be good for you.”

 

“Okay, and that.  You keep talking about how you’re – how we’re special or something.  You keep having all this talk of being prepared, having enough people, of having the _right_ people.  What are the qualifications?  What makes us special?  What _exactly_ are you gathering all these people to prepare for?”

 

“There are things . . . that the gods _can’t_ do.  And yet they need to be done.  There are normal people, then there are us.”

 

Tony swallowed.  “You’re talking about heroes.”

 

“I am.  Everyone in this room.”

 

“And what makes a hero?”

 

“A combination of things.  But . . . how do I put this?”

 

All this talk of him being an Alastor.  And did Steve even know if Tony could even do it?  Everyone called him a hero.  It didn’t make him one.

 

But Tony could feel a fire kindling in his bones, like this was his fate.  _This_ was what he was meant for, and everything had always been coming to this.

 

“Well, there are men, there are gods, and there are those of us who are both, yet neither,” Steve nodded at him.

 

“Maybe you’re a hero,” Tony grumbled, “but not all of us are heroes.”

 

Steve traded a look with the others, then smiled cryptically at Tony.  “Wait and see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: I'm really sorry I haven't updated this very recently, but I'm currently working on by Big Bang, which is a historical AU that is very long and needs lots of research. I'm not abandoning this, I know where I'm going, it's just gonna be a little while. <3


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